


Flatscreen

by UnmovingGreatLibrary



Category: Touhou Project
Genre: F/F, Gen, POV Second Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-13 03:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnmovingGreatLibrary/pseuds/UnmovingGreatLibrary
Summary: One night, a mysterious girl starts appearing on Renko's television.She calls herself Maribel Hearn.She claims to be the other member of the Sealing Club.And she says that there's a very strange sort of monster on the loose.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story on a whim in mid-2015. After a week or two of pretty enthusiastic writing, several chapters in, I realized that it needed tension and sat down to rework the plot.
> 
> When I sketched up a new outline for it, I added a monster to keep things moving. I was about 2/3 of the way through the new outline when I realized that it was starting to resemble another fic idea I had laying around, for the sequel to Teeth and Claws. After some thought and literally about a month of straight planning, I took bits from both ideas and made a new story out of them, and thus Eyes in the Dark was created.
> 
> ... that mostly-complete outline sat around on my computer for a few years, though, and a while back I reread it and found it better than I'd remembered. I decided to revisit the story and finish it this time, filling in the gaps pretty easily. Big chunks of these first few chapters predate Eyes in the Dark, and I ripped out smaller bits and used them in there. A decent amount of ideas also got recycled--compare Renko's thoughts on fish at the beginning of the first chapter to the restaurant scene in Eyes in the Dark chapter 4, if you're really curious what that looks like. So, there might be some familiar bits here and there, but apart from some thematic stuff, this is an entirely separate story. Call it a collab between 2015 me and 2019 me.
> 
> As usual, [Alice](https://uncheckedtomfoolery.tumblr.com/) provided very helpful beta-reading. Also as usual, I've already finished this story and will be posting it in chunks, Fridays and Mondays. If there are any delays, I'll announce them on my Tumblr.

Legally, they can't say that it's fish.

The package they came in only referred to them as “seafood fillets”, while carefully avoiding the topic of what they're fillets _of_. They let the meat do the marketing instead, strips of perfect pinkish flesh showing delectably through the wrapper. It's only if you glance at the back of the label that you see the ingredients: _Water, hydrolyzed soy protein concentrate, glycerin, salt, monosodium glutamate..._

It's supposed to taste like cod, you think. Since actual cod hasn't been available in stores since you were thirteen, you're not actually sure.

Whatever it is, it's dinner. Hydrolyzed soy protein concentrate nitsuke. You're treating yourself tonight, after turning in a couple of essays and getting ahead on your lab work. Now that you have a gap in assignments, your weekends are free again, and you're thinking of getting some Sealing Club activities in. So, you lay on the floor, with your meal and every lead you've gathered lately sitting in front of you. As always, there are dozens of them, more than you could possibly investigate. They range from _Man Returns From Near-Death Experience With Map Of The Afterlife_ to _Extraterrestrial Transmission Provides First Glimpse Of Alien Life_.

The second article contains a photo that the aliens supposedly transmitted, a tract of barren land below a starry sky. Something about the sky doesn't feel right. You squint at it, and your eyes decipher its secrets as easily as most people see colors. That star in the left corner is Theta Geminorum, and there's 66 Aurigae... the photo was taken near 45°33'N 75°50'W, about seven months ago. A quick online search informs you that the coordinates are near Ottawa, Canada. You sort that article into your 'debunked' pile.

The TV drones on, providing background noise. Like most of your belongings, it's on the cheaper side, and the translation software isn't quite state of the art. The voices are still understandable, but you catch the occasional moment of polyphony when the translation doesn't come quite fast enough. “... preorder collector's edition comes with one of five different VR chips, covering all of your favorite characters...” “... financing, and with no proven side effects, a deal like this won't last long!”

The commercials transition back into a program, and you try to filter out the characters' banter and the ensuing laugh track. It fades into background noise, and you almost forget that it's turned on until a voice says, “Renko! Renko, can you see me?!”

You glance up. Onscreen, a girl is standing a little too close to the camera, eclipsing the sitcom hijinks happening in the background. Whatever you'd been expecting to see, she doesn't really fit the profile. She looks foreign, with wavy blonde hair under a puffy hat, and her eyes are red and swollen, like she's been crying. None of the other characters seem to notice her.

You've heard about commercials like this. They skim your network traffic to detect when you aren't paying attention, then insert interactive commercials into whatever you were watching. The viewer's attention gets pulled back to the TV, the marketers get an audience who wasn't watching the show anyway, and the network makes a few extra yen, all for the price of a shoddy off-the-shelf expert system that can just barely hold a conversation. As marketing gimmicks go, it isn't a bad one, you suppose.

It also isn't something you really want to get involved with. You go back to reading the article about the afterlife map, even though it's becoming increasingly clear that the whole thing is some kind of ARG.

“Please, Renko, you can see me, right?! I, I'm not even sure how long I was gone. Everything's so weird... Nobody else can even hear me.”

She's tenacious, you'll give her that. If this is a commercial, it's a damn weird one. Using the viewer's name is old hat, the kind of thing that started screaming 'spam' a decade ago. Maybe that's their angle. The crying girl gimmick is definitely novel. You're sure that if you talk to her, she'll start telling you about how she inherited a fortune, and she'll be happy to give you eighty percent if you just help her transfer it to another country. All the more reason not to reply. You keep your eyes on the article. Surely she's programmed with some kind of timeout.

“... you _can_ see me, can't you?” The girl goes quiet, fidgeting. A laugh track plays behind her. “Come on, this isn't funny...”

You sigh. “Whatever you're trying to accomplish here, you'd be better off picking somebody else.” You shuffle through the papers, digging out the next article without looking up. “I'm a broke college student.”

“Renko... I. Please tell me you haven't—“

“Please remove me from your filtering criteria. TV off.”

Soundlessly, the TV shuts off, leaving you in peace. You turn on a fan for some white noise and resume reading, hurrying to eat the last of your hydrolyzed soy protein concentrate before it gets cold.

* * *

A few days pass. You investigate one of the paranormal claims over the weekend and don't find much.

By the time the girl pops up again, you've almost forgotten about that first encounter.

“Your name is Renko Usami, you grew up in Tokyo and won't shut up about how much better it is than Kyoto, your grandma's name was Sumireko, and you had a pet cat named Maru when you were in elementary school!”

She blurts it all out in one go. It gets your attention, at least. You look up from your textbook and glance at the TV. As before, she looks like a wreck. The outburst left her half-breathless, her eyes have bags under them, her hair's a mess, and her clothes look like she slept in them. She watches you apprehensively, reminding you of nothing so much as the abused dog your aunt took in when you were little. This time, she's popped up in the middle of an action movie. She flinches at every gunshot, glancing worriedly over her shoulder.

You study her and consider all of this. The fact that she's back, with even more information... well. You consider the possibility that it's just a very advanced targeted advertisement, digging through ages-old metadata to find the exact right thing to grab your attention. That seems like a bit of a waste, considering that you barely dodged an overdraft fee for buying a bag of chips a few weeks ago. More information needed. Time for page one from the old AI testing playbook: seeing how she deals with completely unexpected input. “I'm reading about quantum reductions of the spatial diffeomorphism constraint,” you say, and lift the book just enough for her to read the cover. “Do you have any thoughts on the subject?”

“H-huh?” The girl falters in confusion, and you smile at your apparent success. “What about it?”

“Just checking if you have an opinion on the topic.”

“Er, well, not really, but I think I recognize the book? That's the physics one you're always studying at lunch, isn't it?”

You try not to let too much surprise show on your face. It could just be an educated guess based on the cover or something, but it's a lot better than a cheap AI could ever manage. You're talking to a human, then. “Close enough,” you admit, and push yourself up to sit cross-legged on the floor. “So, are you a hacker or something?”

She looks relieved for a moment, but it doesn't last long. She slowly deflates. “You... really don't remember me, do you?”

“I remember that we spoke a few days ago. If we met before that, I don't remember anything.”

She nods glumly. “My name is... M-maribel Hearn.” Her voice cracks mid-syllable. “I'm the other member of the Sealing Club.”

You study her face, expecting to find some tic to prove that this is all an over-elaborate prank, but she looks dead serious. If she's an actress, she's wasting her talents on this. A prickling sensation spreads across the back of your neck, and you stare incredulously. It raises a thousand questions, and you don't even know where to begin. _How did she find you? How is she inserting herself into the movie? Where is she broadcasting from?_ You decide to start with the obvious ones. “There hasn't been another member of the Sealing Club since I took over, and I've never known anybody by the name of Mari—” You can't even remember what she called herself. Too many syllables. “Your name.”

“I'd thought if anybody would remember me, maybe you—“ She sniffs, and turns her head to the side to hide the fact that she's crying. “Nobody else can even see me now.”

This is not a conversation that you're mentally prepared for. Seeing her in this condition stirs some protective instinct you didn't even know you had, but you have to maintain a healthy skepticism. You resist the urge to scoot closer to the TV. As calmly as you can, you ask, “Can you explain what you mean?”

“That monster, it—I guess you don't remember that now, either, do you? This... thing. I accidentally let it loose, and it—I don't think I exist anymore. Or ever existed. It took that from me.” She finally turns back to you, her eyes puffy and wet, and gives one last sniffle. “Please help me, Renko. I'm so scared.”

You let out a slow breath and try to gather your thoughts. You wish you were recording this. You have the feeling that you're going to be doubting your own memory of this incident by tomorrow morning. “Let's say that I were to believe you,” you say. “What do you mean? It... made you stop existing? Do you mean it killed you?”

“I mean that my existence is _gone_. You should know me, we're _friends_ , this is all wrong and—“

The scene ends, cutting her off mid-syllable. She disappears from the screen along with everything else.

A commercial break starts up. She's nowhere to be seen.

When the movie resumes a few minutes later, she doesn't come with it.

It takes twenty minutes for your hands to stop shaking.

* * *

The next morning, you write a list of possible explanations, ranked from most to least likely.

  * Weird practical joke
  * Hallucination
  * Advanced AI
  * Ghost
  * Girl who stopped existing
  * Communication with a parallel universe



The possibility that the girl was telling the truth is nowhere near the top of the list, but whatever is going on, it's piqued your curiosity. And your anxiety. Encounters with the unexplained are fascinating when they take place in old graveyards and history battlefields. When they're happening five meters from where you sleep... well. You like to think that you're brave, but you had to unplug the TV and turn it toward the wall before you could relax.

That isn't the only thing that's making you uncomfortable, though. The desperation in the girl's voice sounded _real_ , and something about her story just felt right to you. You have to drag yourself back to a neutral viewpoint, remind yourself that there's no real evidence for anything she said. Even if there really is something paranormal going on, that doesn't mean she's telling the truth. Maybe she's a ghost who's mistaken you for somebody she knew when she was alive. It's best to tread with caution.

The first step, you decide, is to buy a camera. You've been meaning to get one for your club activities anyway, but it still hurts. You want the full suite: visual, infrared, ultraviolet. If there's anything supernatural going on around your television, you want to know about it. All those features don't come cheap, and you cringe as you hand over two months worth of discretionary cash. It takes another two hours to get it integrated with your computer and hide it near the TV.

That will let you check for ghosts and reassure yourself that you aren't hallucinating. You aren't sure how to check if she's an AI. Most of the other possibilities are almost as hard to test.

But, you're an investigator of the supernatural. You've read a thing or two about ghosts. You pull out the few books you own on the topic, rent a few more from the city's single occult bookstore, and skim every reliable-seeming resource that you can find. You're still sure that 90% of what you're reading is completely fabricated, but you're used to that. If it were that easy to find legitimate magic, the supernatural would be common knowledge. The only way to sort the good from the bad is through empirical observations.

Some of the rituals require the name of the spirit you're dealing with. It's a problem in this case, because you barely caught the girl's name to begin with, and it was an unfamiliar, foreign one. You sit down with a notebook and try to capture your hazy memories in syllables. _Maebiraebi? Merubari? Berireru?_ None of them sound right. In the end, you settle on _Maeriberi_. The fact that a quick search suggests that isn't a real name doesn't fill you with confidence, but you're not even sure what country she's from. You'll just have to settle for the approximation.

So, you spend the better part of a day carrying out rituals, one-woman seances, and scryings over your television. It does feel a little silly, chanting and sprinkling salt over what is possibly the least esoteric potential artifact in the world— _Samsung EA65ZZB9900FZN_ , 'Made In Malaysia' stamped on the side—but it's all part of being a modern-day occultist. Part of you even finds it a little cool, wonders if you can find ways to slip it into conversation later. _”Yeah, I've been experimenting with necromancy lately. It really isn't so hard if you're willing to just take the time and do it right.”_

This is probably why you're still single.

Despite your best efforts, your television refuses to give up its secrets. It is, as far as your techniques can reveal, no more supernatural than your socks.

You can't let disappointment slow you down, but your other theories all require you to observe the TV when the girl is on it. It means that you're going to have to let her show up again. You find yourself looking forward to the prospect. How often do you get to interact with a real, unexplained phenomenon? But, it's probably best not to get your hopes up. Occam's Razor still says that she's way more likely to be a very dedicated hacker with a strange sense of humor.

Your preparations for the next stage don't take long. You load some software onto your phone to capture all the network traffic in your apartment. You double-check the camera. You turn the TV's screen toward the room again. Since the girl vanished when the scene changed last time, you tune to the single longest-running thing you can find, a four-hour late-night infomercial. And, with a two-day supply of snacks and coffee, you settle in on the floor for the world's strangest stakeout.

* * *

“Renko? Hey, Renko, do you hear me?”

You hadn't realized that you'd drifted off to sleep, but here you are. You have that strange feeling of waking up with noise around, realizing that you've been aware of the sound of the TV all along, but only just now becoming _conscious_ of it. You groan and blink the sleep from your eyes. The view is coffee cups and potato chip bags, strewn on the floor in front of you. Towering above them: the TV, with the girl's concerned face looking down at you.

This sinks in slowly, until you remember why you're here. With a jolt, you push yourself up from the floor. It isn't as easy as it sounds, since one of your arms has fallen asleep beneath you. With your non-tingling hand, you fumble for your phone, and mash the icon to signal the camera to start recording. “Hey, uh, good morning,” you say, and glance out the window to make sure you guessed right.

Your infomercial is long over. This time, the girl—Maeriberi or whatever—has appeared over some sort of animated series, and it shows. Her body is rendered in the same style as the drawings behind her, sketched out in black lines and with a stylized yellow poof for her hair. If she's a hacker or something, she's getting very inventive, you suppose. You're not sure if it's the art style or a change in her attitude, but she looks a little calmer than the last two times she's appeared. Tired, but not on the verge of tears. “Good morning,” she says. “Did you sleep well?”

“I, uh.” You rub at your cheek. It's still imprinted with the pattern of synthetic tatami mats after being smushed against the floor for hours. “Not really, no.” You clear your throat and try to gather your thoughts. Like any experiment, this needs to be approached with the right procedure. “Do you mind if we cut the pleasantries? Unless you think you'll be able to stick around longer this time.”

“Oh, um.” She glances back over her shoulder. Behind her, two women in lacy dresses are slipping comically oversized guns into their handbags. “I think I've only got until the commercial break again, so that's... probably for the best.” Even drawn, you can see a hint of sadness in the smile she gives you.

“Right...” You grab the notebook you already prepared for this occasion, its top page filled with questions to ask her, ranked from most to least important. “First of all, can you repeat your name?”

She looks surprised. “... oh. Of course. It's Maribel Hearn. That's Ma-ri-bel, and Hearn is all one syllable.”

You nod, and do your best to remember it. “Well then, Mari—Merib—“ You fumble with the foreign name, trying your best to repeat it syllable for syllable. “M-mae...”

“You can just call me Merry,” she interjects, with a lopsided smile.

You nearly wilt with relief. “Well, er, Merry. You said before that you'd stopped existing. Can you explain that a bit more?”

“I'll... try my best.” She sighs out a long breath. “Well, okay, to start with, strange powers run in my family.”

“What kind of powers?”

“I can manipulate... boundaries. This is the point where you always ask what I mean by boundaries, but, um, I still don't have a good answer. They're the lines that distinguish one thing from another... both conceptually and physically.”

“I see.” This is already far weirder than you'd expected. You write 'boundary manipulation' in your notebook and underline it half a dozen times. It's not a supernatural ability you've ever heard before. You get the feeling that the now-familiar social media circles full of self-proclaimed psychics, clairvoyants, and other assorted superhumans won't have a single mention of the ability. That's probably a good thing. “Could you give some examples?”

“Well, um. Think about a mirror. When you look at it, you're seeing a bunch of photons and things that make your reflection, right? But you still see your reflection on the other side. We could call the surface of the mirror the boundary between truth and illusion.”

“And you could manipulate that?”

“I could, yes. Doing something that drastic is still kind of hard, but if I wanted, I could probably reach into the illusion and pull objects out, or step through the mirror to whatever location it showed...”

“I think I get the idea,” you say, trying to maintain a neutral tone of voice. You remind yourself that you're only supposed to be gathering her side of the story right now, not evaluating it. You can already think of half a dozen ways that the mirror trick violates laws of physics. _Would_ violate, rather. Obviously, something like that couldn't actually happen. “Is that how you're getting into my TV?”

“This is... something similar, but it's a bit more complicated. I can explain later, but... um, anyway. We've done a lot of experiments to figure out how my powers work. This time just... didn't go very well.”

“Is 'we' you and I?”

“Right...”

“You said before that you're a member of the Sealing Club. Is that why we were doing these experiments?”

“Mmhm.'

“... I see.” You try to summarize it in your notes as neutrally as possible. _... claims to have been performing an experiment in her capacity as a member of the Sealing Club._ This is all starting to feel a bit surreal. “Okay, please continue.”

Maribel fidgets, looking just as uncomfortable with this as you are. Before she can continue, behind her, a quiet conversation erupts into violence. One of the characters pulls a gun from her purse and sprays a dozen bullets across the room. Maribel yelps in surprise at the noise, dropping toward the floor.

“... sorry. Should I play something calmer next time?” Only after the words are out of your mouth do you realize what you just said. Yes, better make sure the girl inside of your TV is comfy. That definitely doesn't sound crazy. Even so, unease is worming through your brain now. Her reaction was too genuine. She still looks terrified. Even if she _were_ a world-class actress, she would have needed to rehearse that.

“Please.” She shoots a worried glance at the fistfight that's brewing behind her before she continues. “Um, anyway. I've used my powers before to pull items from other places and times, and after that thing with TORIFUNE we know that it—“

“... TORIFUNE.” You hadn't meant to cut her off, but it happens anyway. “The... satellite?”

“Um, right. We traveled to it a few months ago. Using my powers, I mean.”

“That. Uh.” You're not even sure how to put that down in your notes. This is going from 'surreal' to 'outlandish.' Are you really supposed to believe that a college occult club visited the Earth-Moon L2 point? You jot 'TORIFUNE' in your notes, and underline it so many times that the paper rips beneath the tip of your pen. You really hadn't intended to let yourself get sidetracked, but you can't resist a question on the topic. “... why?”

“I... saw it in my dreams. There were weird creatures up there. It was kind of a paradise. … you really liked being weightless, you know. You got so distracted doing backflips and stuff that you didn't even notice a creature sneaking up to attack me.”

It doesn't _sound_ like a lighthearted sort of memory, but she laughs under her breath anyway. Something inside you twists. When she approaches it like that, laughing like an old friend about your little foibles, you can almost convince yourself that you feel the absence of the memory. A void where it should be, like a missing tooth.

You clear your throat and force your mind back to the topic at hand. You still don't even have an answer to the first question on your list, and the program behind her looks like it's rapidly approaching its end. “... sorry. Please continue.”

“Oh, um. We were pretty confident that I could move people and things between two places. So we... decided to push my limits. We thought a good first test would be seeing if I could move things across abstract boundaries, too. The plan was for me to pull this fictional ice cream flavor out of a TV show. It was supposed to be really safe. I mean, ice cream, right? It isn't very dangerous.”

“And that's when the... monster, er. Attacked you?”

She nods slowly. “It happened really fast. I opened the boundary and, um, something came out. It... it _took_ everything from me. I don't know how to explain it, but I could feel it. And then... I was gone.”

“You're here now, though.”

“It was really hard. I think it took me a few days. And then I found out nobody could see me. By the time I managed to get your attention, I was afraid I might just... fade away. I don't, um—I don't think I was even _born_ anymore. How am I supposed to fix that?”

Her voice grows quieter and less steady throughout the explanation. By the end, she's barely even audible. She glances aside, wiping her eyes and stifling a sniffle.

Sometime during her explanation, you'd stopped taking notes. Now, numbly, you write, 'invisible, erased history.' Your pen drops from your hands at the end, and while you don't remember deciding to put it down, you have no intention of writing anything else.

What is there to even write? Scientific observations don't give you much insight to the girl in front of you, shivering as she tries to stay calm enough to talk. It would tug at your heartstrings even if you'd never spoken with her before. And paired with the assertion that you _know_ her, and have forgotten years of your life spent together... a sense of helplessness and nostalgia chokes you up, like a snake around your neck.

You fake a cough to buy yourself time to steady your own expression, and clear your throat. “I know it's hard. But, please try to focus. Uh.” You glance at the list of questions you prepared. They aren't much help anymore. You didn't really come prepared for the 'girl in my TV claims to be my very good friend whose life was eaten by a monster' scenario.

“You have to understand that this is, er, a lot to take in. Is there anything you can point me at? What about that monster? If there's a monster running around campus, I would have heard of it, wouldn't I?”

“I don't know. Everything's gone, and...” She sighs. “Maybe seeing my apartment might jog your memory, or there might be something left behind? It's above that corner store east of the river, apartment 203. But I'm not sure if—“ Another gunshot rings out behind Maribel, and this time, she only winces. Behind her, a character slumps dramatically to a table, oozing blood through his fingers, and gasps out a few final words.

Credits start scrolling up the screen. They slide right over Maribel, but she watches you through the gaps between lines, like the bars on an old cartoony prison window. Between _EXECUTIVE PRODUCER: SAKIYO TAIHEI_ and _CO-PRODUCER: TOYOHIKO FUKUDA_ , you can see her expression turning more and more anxious. “R-renko, do you understand? You're the only one I can turn to. If you can't help me, I might... I might disappear for good, or something even worse. Please tell me you believe me, Renko. Please.”

“I...” Your voice catches in your throat. You don't know how you'd planned to finish that sentence. 'I believe you'? 'I don't know'? You search desperately for something to say, but you're too slow. The scene fades away, replaced by a solid black credit screen. Maribel fades with it.

You could swear, though, that at the very end, you saw her wilting in disappointment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes pretty heavy use of workskins. If you have them turned off, it might be kinda incomprehensible.

The network traffic during Maribel's appearance was completely normal. TV is so heavily encrypted that you'd never stand a chance of decoding the packets without an approved device, but the same goes for any hacker. If she's showing up on your TV through electronic trickery, she's very good at covering her tracks. That, or the guide you found online to using a packet sniffer isn't as authoritative as it likes to pretend.

You're a little less surprised by that than you probably should be. The really surprising thing, though, is the camera.

It takes you a few hours just to work up the nerve to watch the footage. When you do, you find... nothing. It's a video of you, with your hair mussed from sleeping on the floor, having an impassioned conversation with a household appliance. _“Well then, Mari—Merib... M-Mae...“ You go silent, flustered from your own mispronunciations, as two cartoon characters walk through a garishly decorated train. “Well, er, Merry.” The TV show continues, oblivious, as the two characters walk up to a banquet table and glance in their bags to make sure that their guns are still there. "You said before that y—"_

You turn off the recording, with a tight feeling in your chest and disbelief creeping into your mind.

Afterward, you feel hollow. There's something missing. That sense of nostalgia for some loss you can't even remember clings to you, and you can't shake it.

You barely even remember that you still have classes until your alarm wakes you up the next day. You throw yourself together and barely make it to your Theories of High-Energy Physics lecture on time. Your brain feels like a wet rag, and you can't concentrate. At some point, the professor calls on you and points out that you've been staring into space for twenty minutes. You claim to have a headache and spend the rest of the session with your head on your desk, trying your futile best to pay attention. Afterward, you skip the rest of your classes and catch an early train home.

You try to reason yourself out of an emotion. ' _Why am I even sad?_ ' It doesn't make sense. Maribel said that you used to know her, but what about it? No matter how you strain, you can't remember ever seeing her before that first night on the TV. Besides, for all you know, she's lying, or a hallucination, or any one of a dozen other things. There's no proof that anything she's said is true.

It's scary, a little. There are only so many things on your list of possible explanations, and 'hallucinations' is pretty high up there. It seems to best fit the current evidence, too. Halfheartedly, you read a few articles on the topic, take a few anonymous diagnostic batteries. _I sometimes feel like other people can read my thoughts: Strongly Agree/Agree/Disagree/Strongly Disagree._ Getting messages from your TV is enough to put you pretty high on the scale on a few of them. Begrudgingly, you print out your results and add them to the case file.

It doesn't feel right, though. Maribel's lopsided smile makes you ache for something you can't even remember. Like the memory of an old song, carrying emotional baggage from every time you heard it growing up. Something about it _feels_ right. You want to believe her. It isn't the most objective measure of accuracy, but you can no longer call this an objective experiment.

In the evening, with the shadows growing long, you decide to go check her apartment.

It's a bit of a trip. If this place is really hers, she can afford to live a lot closer to campus than you do. It's only a few blocks from the train station, though, and even in the rapidly dwindling light, it isn't hard to find the place. It's a small, squat building. The first floor is a store front, with its windows plastered with handwritten signs announcing the latest sales. The next few floors have rather plainer windows, with house plants sitting in a few of them. The shop is already closed for the night, but slipping around the side, you find a door leading to the interior.

You enter.

A narrow, steep staircase leads up to an equally narrow hallway. There are only a few apartments up here, and while the doors are all shut, you can hear the sounds of life coming from behind most of them. Muffled televisions and parents scolding their kids—not exactly the background music you were expecting for what is, you're realizing a few seconds too late, a paranormal investigation.

Apartment 203 is near the end of the hall. You approach the door, but hesitate. If Maribel was telling the truth, then you've been here dozens of times before. Taking a step back, you look around, soaking in the ambiance and waiting to see if it stirs up any forgotten memories. Nothing occurs to you, though. You've stood in half a dozen hallways like this in half a dozen apartment buildings, and this one feels no more special than the others. It only makes sense, you suppose. If meeting Maribel herself didn't bring back any memories, it would be kind of weird if the apartment did.

Which only leaves one more step to this experiment. Taking a deep breath, you knock.

You can hear movement inside almost immediately. Soon, the apartment's resident comes to the door. She's an exchange student. Her name is Jennyfer (“'Jenny' and then 'fer' at the end. My parents thought it was cute,” she explains.) She moved in ten days ago. The apartment, she says, was completely empty when she moved in, and as far as she knew, it had gone unused for a few years.

You thank her for her time and leave, without a single clue to lend credence to the idea that you aren't hallucinating.

On the way back to the train station, you debate your options. You could ask Maribel to explain all of this, but you'd need to find a medium where you could talk for more than five minutes. If there's no proof that she exists outside of your head, though, _should_ you? You've already got one foot in a fantasy world, investigating leads given to you by a girl who lives in your TV. The sensible thing to do would probably be seeing a psychologist. At the very least, you should perform some more experiments before you naively accept the 'girl who faded from existence' claim.

You're focused enough on this internal debate that it takes you a few seconds to realize that something is... wrong.

The air feels stagnant. Not just unmoving, but _dead_ , like it's been locked up in an abandoned house for a century. Your every movement feels deliberate and engineered, like you're a robot learning to walk for the first time. It makes you aware of just how many joints you have to bend to make it possible, how many muscles cooperate for you to take a single step. It's absurd.

A streetlight flickers on overhead, and it strikes you as even more ridiculous—fifty kilograms of refined metal, ripped from the ground and shipped halfway around the world to hold up a single light bulb.

Everything suddenly feels unreal. Like you've been walking through a movie set all along, and only just now noticed that you're surrounded by cheap plastic props. The meaning has fallen out of everything. You've logically believed it before, but not until now have you really _understood_ the fact that the universe is just a bunch of molecules, floating around in nothingness. Your entire being is just a bunch of baryons chained together in one specific way, and your existence doesn't mean any more than that of a ham sandwich.

It's enough to make your head swim. It's a struggle to even walk. You set your eyes on the horizon and push forward, trying to concentrate on the simple, mechanical motion of walking. 

There's a man in front of you.

He's walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, looking at you with blank interest. Normally, having a stranger stare at you so intently would set off about six alarm bells in your head. Now, you don't see why it shouldn't happen.

You shuffle ahead, eyes glazed. A firm sensation on your shoulder stops you, and in your dazed state, you barely register it as his hand.

He slides over in front of you, still looking you over. It's weird, but no less meaningless than everything else around you. You stand and wait, giving the occasional twinge as your body tries to resume walking.

He leans in, locking eyes with you. His other hand settles onto a shoulder. He pulls you closer, and closer.

“Let... let go of me.” Some part of your mind has enough presence to say that, at least.

In response, he unravels.

His arms and legs vanish, and what replaces them is a flickering _nothingness_ , a no-color that your eyes can't even process. It's an... abomination, a patchwork thing. The man's face is a blank mask, sliding across its skin like a leaf on the surface of a pond. There's a jacket, too, and the subtle peach-tinged scent of a perfume, and a woman's voice. It's a razor-thin veneer, cobbled together from a dozen pieces and slipped on like a garment, hiding whatever is beneath. The jagged gaps between these stolen pieces of existence are filled with an aching, blank absence, like static set aflame.

The thing has a tendril of its body draped over each of your shoulders, squeezing down on them painfully. It lurches closer, and the man's face slides along its surface, lazily spinning.

You're frozen in something between disbelief and terror. Your eyes ache and blur, like you're trying to see both sides of an optical illusion at once. Finally, one view wins out. You're once again looking at an out-of-shape businessman, staring blankly up at you from mere centimeters away.

You've seen what's behind that mask, though.

A scream rips itself from your throat. Acting on sheer animal instinct, you drive a fist into his face. It feels like a trash bag full of pudding. It squishes back, sending bulges and ripples through his form. Another blow, and another, and blood starts leaking from his nose. He takes the beating without complaint.

One of those arms, or tendrils, or _whatever_ loosens its grip on your shoulder, and you don't pass up the opportunity. You drive your heel into something below. It feels wet and crunchy. It gives you enough of an opening to slip out of the thing's grasp.

You turn, and you run, and you don't dare to slow down until your legs start to ache.

* * *

The door of the restaurant lets out a cheerful chime behind you, and you realize that you've made a mistake.

You couldn't keep going. Not right now. Not with that _thing_ out there. Following some terrified caveman instinct, you ran toward the first lit shelter you saw. So, here you are, standing in the doorway of a fast food joint, gasping for air, disheveled, and with some blood splattered on your blouse.

Apparently this is pretty normal by the standards of 24-hour burger places, because the clerks at the counter only shoot you a brief, disinterested look before going back about their business. You take a few seconds to collect yourself: straightening your hat, pulling your jacket in tighter to hide the blood, and trying very hard to not look out any of the windows. Here and now, you've reverted the logic of a dumb animal—if you don't see the predator, it can't see you.

You're not going back out there, which means you're stuck here.

You do the only thing you _can_ do, under the circumstances. In this case, 'the only thing you can do' involves ordering a burger and a six-piece nuggets, with a milkshake for 99 yen extra, because _you've fucking earned it._

You take a seat in the corner of the room, as far from the windows as possible. The food disappears quickly, mechanically, as your mind tries to sort through everything that happened. At least this is a good setting for it. Sitting beneath a buzzing florescent light next to a poster for 'THE ALL NEW BACON-CUSTARD SUSHI BURGER,' it's hard to take the supernatural seriously. You could hardly come up with a more mundane setting if you tried.

By the time your food disappears, though, your adrenaline rush still hasn't faded. And you still can't bring yourself to look out the window for longer than a few seconds at a time, lest you see something you'd really rather not.

In a desperate attempt to keep yourself distracted, you lock your gaze onto a TV in the corner. It's playing some sports program, muted, and you honestly can't care enough to even figure out which sport. Commercials soon overtake it, and a woman cheerfully hawks a bottle of detergent.

Another commercial starts. Maribel pops up onscreen.

She gestures wildly, and it still takes a moment for you to recognize her. As soon as she has your attention, she starts talking, but the TV is still muted. She seems to realize it after a second or two, shifting from foot to foot with anxious energy. Finally, she presses her hands together in front of her, then mimes folding them apart.

A book. She wants you to find a book.

After everything that's happened in the past hour, taking orders from the girl who lives in the TV feels natural. Refreshing, really. It sure as hell isn't like _you_ had a plan.

You dig in your bag, but you don't have any books on you. Your phone does, though. You've got a reader app, some thoroughly DRM'd thing the school likes to use to make sure that nobody can transfer their digital textbooks. You haven't opened it in a while, and it shows—it's still open to some book from a literature assignment, your last elective before two years straight of math and physics. You're not sure what happens next, though. You skim through a paragraph... and then it catches your eye:

“Um. Hi, Renko. I'm sorry if last night was... kind of heavy.”

Oh, yeah, last night. You'd almost forgotten about that, what with the events of the past hour. Really, at this point, the girl inside your TV claiming to be your lost BFF feels almost mundane. Natural.

You glance up to the TV, but Maribel's nowhere to be seen up there. “Um,” you say, keeping your voice low, “it's fine? I'm not sure if this is a great time to talk, though.”

“Renko...? Oh, right. If you're trying to talk to me, you might need to write. I'm not sure if I can hear you like this.”

You frown down at the phone, uncertain how you'd even do that. After a few seconds, you manage to get the app into note-taking mode. “I didn't know you could be in books too,” you type in the margin.

You have to skim through another few paragraphs to find the next spot with her input.

“Hold on, being a disembodied voice is disorienting. I think I need to establish myself. Um."

Maribel Hearn pushed the door open and walked into the building. "There," she said. Without bothering to remove her shoes, she stepped into the kitchen and pushed herself up to sit on the counter. She looked toward the spot where she imagined Renko to be and shot it a weary smile. “Thanks for replying, at least. I was afraid I might have scared you off.”

Before writing another note, you pause and look around. The restaurant isn't very busy right now. A little too late for the people who just got off work, a little too early for people to drift in from bars and later shifts. It's just you and a few other early evening stragglers, most of them also settled in with their phones. Nobody's shooting you any crazy-girl-having-a-conversation-with-the-invisible-girl-who-lives-in-her-TV looks, at least.

“It was pretty strange,” you type back, after some deliberation.

“I'm sorry if it was a bit much to take in. I would have liked to take things slower, but, um. I was kind of worried, you know?” Maribel's fingers anxiously traced along the edge of the countertop. “So everything is okay?”

“I mean, my chicken nuggets were overcooked,” you type back. “Oh, and I think I just met your monster.”

Maribel shifted in place, frowning up at the ceiling. “Well, I don't think it's _my_ monster,” she said, with a defensive edge to her voice. “... but what happened?”

“I met it on the street after I investigated your apartment. I think it tried to eat me. It was an old businessman, but also a lot of other people too?? Hard to explain. Like it was wearing them.”

“Oh... are you okay?! It didn't get you too, did—well, um, okay, I guess I'd know if it had eaten you. Does everything feel normal, though?”

“Now? I guess. Everything felt strange when I was around it though. Like nothing was real? I think I'm okay.”

With the note committed, you breathe out a slow sigh to steady yourself. It's been ten or fifteen minutes. You're no longer bracing yourself in anticipation of a monster barreling through the window.

On the other hand, you now know for a fact that you live in a reality with _at least one monster in it_. You could almost convince yourself that you'd imagined Maribel. You can't possibly dream that your subconscious came up with that thing out there.

You fish in your bag and pull out your notebook. It's a log of the official club activities over the past several years. It's a little rumpled from being stuffed into your bag hundreds of times, there's dirt ground into the cover from some of your more outdoorsy kind of investigations, and you've used the back as a scratchpad to jot down notes more than once. You flip to the dogeared page, which still marks your last round of notes on Maribel. You draw a line below 'invisible, erased history,' write, 'IN A BOOK' beneath that, and turn back to your phone.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions now that you're here?”

“Questions? Oh, sure. I don't see why not.”

“I tried recording you last time, and I didn't get anything. Do you know why?”

“Hmm...” Maribel hopped down from the counter, crossing her arms and tapping a finger thoughtfully against one elbow. “I hadn't thought about it, but that does make sense to me. I think I can explain it, but you're going to grumble, because it will be in psychology terms. Um, this book isn't written in third-person omniscient, is it? It would help if you could see what I'm thinking.”

“Don't know what that means,” you type, resisting the urge to switch to another app and look it up.

Maribel shook her head with a knowing smirk. “You should really take more arts courses, Renko. I just tried thinking at you, though, and I don't think it's showing up. So, um, hmm. Let me put it like this. Let's say that a meteor fell on Kyoto tonight. Boom! You die. What do you think would be listed as the cause of death?”

This sounds like a trick question. “Technically, if it hits the ground, its a meteorite, not a meteor,” you type. “But it would be that, wouldn't it?”

“Exactly! But that's not really the case, is it? Let's say that as part of the impact, a building collapsed on you. A bunch of rocks from the building fell on your head, maybe. The rocks fell from the building. The building was knocked over by the shockwave, which is really just a whole lot of air molecules pushing against each other, right? The air was pushed by the meteor...” Maribel smirked slyly and crossed her arms. “And the meteor might have been flying around for billions of years. All kinds of planets and stars influenced its path. Maybe if one of those stars had been in a slightly different spot, the meteor would have went somewhere else and never hurt anybody.”

Maribel paused to wait for a response, then laughed under her breath. “Oh wow, it knows I'm waiting for you to respond? Having a narrator is kind of fun. Anyway, since you're not saying anything, I'm going to assume you're with me so far? My point is, it's a big complicated mess, right? The thing about 'I died because of a meteor' is just how the human mind interprets it. It's a story you tell yourself to make sense out of the world. It's a pretty accurate one! The meteor is the most, um, proximate cause of you dying. But that's still just your human perception. The universe doesn't care about you or the meteor. It's all just a bunch of equations. Everything else is in your head.”

You reread the explanation a few times until you think you have a pretty good sense of it before continuing. “Okay, I think I get it. What about it?”

Maribel shook her head with a little sigh. “Now I know you don't remember me. You and I used to argue about that example for days. You never liked Relative Psychology thought experiments that much... Um, the point is, most of your experiences are subjective. Colors are just qualia that you experience when light of the right wavelengths hits your eye. If you and I walked around a festival together, and you were really hungry, your memories of it would probably focus a lot more on the smells of food. And so on. Your senses feed you raw data, but it doesn't mean much until your brain layers meaning onto it. Does that make sense?”

It makes sense, you suppose, but it comes off as a bit... you don't want to say 'useless,' but limited in practical applications. One of those questions that people argued about in your Philosophy 101 class. 'Is the color that I call Red what you'd call Blue?' made you roll your eyes at the time. Now that you're talking to a girl who claims to have stopped existing, it suddenly seems more relevant to your life. “I think so.”

“Good! So, when you're reading this book, it's kind of the same thing, right? This book is just a bunch of pixels arranged in a certain pattern. It doesn't have any intrinsic meaning. If I showed it to, like, my mom, it would just look like a bunch of gibberish to her, because she doesn't know Japanese. But when you read it, you create _meaning_ , and that's... basically where I am, I guess? I don't exist in the TV _or_ the book. I... I exist in your perception, basically.”

“So _you're_ qualia? … is it 'a qualium'?”

“The singular form is 'quale,' I think,” Maribel chastised teasingly, with a soft smile on her face. It soon evaporated, and she fretted with the hem of her dress as she chose her next words carefully. “It's like I said before. That thing erased me. I'm, um, a concept with no basis in reality. I'm... a fantasy. Or, at least, I'm close enough that with a little boundary manipulation, I can slip into the little illusions that pop up in your head when you consume fiction.”

You'd forgotten why this explanation even started, and now, looking back, it takes a bit to assemble it all together in your head. Even after rereading the whole exchange, it only kind of makes sense.

You eat another nugget—not bad, but it has that grainy feeling of synthetic meat that was grown too quickly—and consider all of this. It raises more questions than it answers, but it's the only explanation you have to work with. It takes a few seconds to decide how to respond. “Does that mean you stop existing when I'm not watching tv or anything? Where _are_ you?”

“That's kind of... metaphysical. Um, we can talk about it later, if you want? It's hard to explain. I'm okay when you aren't watching TV or anything, but I feel kind of... woozy if I get too far away from you. Like I might, um, fade at any moment. I've had to stick pretty close to you these past few days.”

It takes a few seconds for the full implications to sink in. She's practically helpless, and apparently can't influence anything beyond slipping you messages. And she's been following you around. She's presumably seen some of what you've done. The first emotions to come out of this are unease at the thought of her invisibly stalking you, but it's soon followed by self-disgust. You picture her anxiously trying to assure herself that she wasn't going to disappear while you wasted your time setting up cameras and performing rituals. It's a miracle that she'll even still talk to you.

“Renko? Are you still there?”

Your name catches the corner of your eye and drags you from your thoughts. “Yeah,” you type, and turn your attention back to the matter at hand. “Sorry, just thinking. That sounds terrifying, actually. It's fine if you need to follow me around, okay?”

“Thank you. I'm sorry for, um, intruding, but I couldn't exactly ask permission first.” With her tension finally fading, Maribel stretched with a yawn, the start of a smile on her face. The conversation was the first real reprieve she'd had in days, and at the moment, there wasn't anybody in the world she would have rather spoken to.

Maribel froze. “... did the book just say what I think it said?”

“I think so, yeah.” You really don't know how to take that.

Maribel turned aside with an embarrassed little groan, rubbing at her cheek. “A-anyway... have I convinced you yet, Renko? That I'm telling the truth, I mean. We can't really get much done until you believe that.”

It isn't even a debate.

You do believe her, you realize.

Maybe, in a sane world, the best explanation would be that you're hallucinating. Now, half an hour after the encounter, you don't have any concrete proof that the monster existed, let alone that Maribel does. Maybe you've been imagining this whole incident all along. But, then, you're an occult researcher. Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith, even if it's a really big leap like accepting that an imaginary girl is talking to you through your TV. It raises some massive questions about the nature of reality, but there's nothing to do now but ride it out.

“I think so,” you write, “but what are we doing? You sound like you have plans.”

“I've had a lot of time to think about it. There isn't much else to do over here.” Maribel clasped her hands behind her back and leaned forward toward the spot where she imagined Renko to be, her head tilted to the side in a smile. “... gah, when the book describes it like that, it sounds really twee, doesn't it? I'd thought it looked elegant.”

“I think it sounds cute,” you type back. You immediately find yourself wondering what the hell led to that indiscretion. Here you are, flirting with your damn literature homework.

“I think I'm changing my mind about this narrator thing...” Maribel sighed, but didn't let it slow her down. “Um, anyway, shouldn't it be obvious? There's a monster on the loose, and I'm pretty sure that I personally count as a paranormal being now. This is what the Sealing Club is all about, isn't it?”

She smiled and extended her hand into the air. “What do you say, miss club president? Will you take the case?”


	3. Chapter 3

Part one of Maribel's plans: Finding a better way to communicate with you. You both agree that the book wasn't as nice as video—you saw her as words on a page, and she apparently heard you as a booming, disembodied voice. You spend most of the weekend sitting in your living room, trying out different approaches.

Your first thought is to just play a movie at half speed, but Maribel says living in a slo-mo world is uncomfortable. Documentaries don't seem quite fictional enough for her purposes, nor do stock footage collections. Preferably, the movie should be calm, something that isn't going to interrupt her with fistfights and car chases every few minutes. It shouldn't cut between shots frequently, because that's really disorienting for her.

That rules out most of the options, really. You pull up a list of the longest movies ever made. Most of them are experimental films, or deal with pretty heavy topics. You don't think it would be very easy to make conversation when one of the participants was broadcasting live from within the Holocaust or the destruction of Pompeii.

In the end, you settle for the DIY approach. All it takes is a little video editing software and a plodding low-budget film from some scenic European country. At first you try to make a loop of background shots, but she says it needs a plot to be fictional enough for her purposes. In the end, your custom-made conversation stage is just a long, stable shot of a meadow. Forty minutes in, two characters have a brief argument in the distance. Two hours later, they return for a reconciliation. 'Very arthouse,' Maribel called it, when you ran the idea by her.

She seems pleased with the final product. "Are these mountains the Alps, do you think?" she says, as she wanders the field. "I wonder how recent this is. I've heard that they're still in nice shape."

Your own setting is a bit less scenic. Between your period of shock and a few days of video-editing, the apartment is a bit of a mess. You've moved your futon to the living room, and it's surrounded by a halo of dirty plates, energy drink cans, convenience store takeout containers, and cup noodle bowls. The contrast couldn't be more apparent. It makes you feel a bit self-conscious, now that you know that Maribel is essentially cohabiting with you.

Once she's gotten a feel for the new venue, Maribel sits down in the grass, as close to the screen as she comfortably can. It leaves the two of you looking at each other from a subjective distance of a few meters. It's close enough, and the film has a high enough definition, that it almost feels like you're actually sitting face-to-face. Kind of intimate, really.

“Does it seem okay?” you ask.

“I love it.” Maribel flashes you a reassuring smile, then starts idly plucking flowers from the grass around her, piling them into her palm. “It feels good to be, um, _around_ things again. This might just be your perception of the movie, but it feels a thousand times better than not existing at all.”

“How does that work, though? Like, if I imagined that it was storming, it would start raining on you?”

“Hmm, well... I think how it works is, when I touch the grass, it feels like what _you_ think grass feels like. If you didn't picture it, I'm not sure I could even pick these flowers.”

“I don't know if I'm ready for this. Usually physicists don't get godlike power until at least the post-grad level.”

She smiles softly and glances down. The pile of flowers in her lap is pretty big now, and she takes a couple of them, twining their stems together. “I think I'll be okay. I'm not sure you can change your perception that easily. It would be like looking at a stop sign and convincing yourself it was blue.”

“I guess.” You glance toward your notebook. You've been preparing a long, long list of questions for Maribel—three pages so far, and you've barely even gotten into the heavy-hitters—but this doesn't feel like the right time. You've never personally ceased to exist, but you're pretty sure that she could use this chance to relax. Better keep it light. “So do you have any ideas for where we should start our investigation? I'm not sure how to, er... un-erase a person.”

“Mmhm. I haven't had much to do over here _but_ think about it, and I haven't come up with much.”

“The only real lead we have is that monster, and I don't think it's going to sit down and let me interview it.”

“It doesn't seem like it's very chatty, no.” Maribel looks up from her work for a moment, frowning with concern. “I'm not sure investigating the monster is a very good idea anyway. If it got you too, we'd be in even worse trouble, right? That should probably be a last resort.”

“Right...” Secretly, you're relieved. You still have vivid memories of that _thing_ , with the blank face of an old man clinging to its surface like a bug on a windshield. “But where do we start otherwise? If making imaginary things real was easy enough for us to fix you in a few days, I'm pretty sure I'd be rich by now. There would probably be a lot more dinosaurs, too. I was pretty into them as a kid.”

“Hmm?” Maribel goes quiet for a few seconds as she weaves another flower into the bundle on her lap. “You don't think it's possible for dreams to become reality, Renko?”

“You mean like, can anybody work hard enough to achieve their goals?”

“Not really.” She clucks her tongue in disapproval. “I mean the thing we're talking about. Mankind's fantasies becoming real.”

“Nope,” you say, without missing a beat. Her expression falters, and you hurry to explain. “I mean, obviously not all of them, right? No matter how hard you hope, you'll never invent faster-than-light travel, for example.”

“... ah.”

“Was that the wrong answer?”

“Well, reality can become a dream. I'm living proof of that. We're in a pretty cruel universe if the opposite isn't true too, huh?”

You're not sure if this is all actual thought on her situation, or if she's just being whimsical. With Maribel, you're not even sure if you could tell.

Casually, she plucks another flower from the ground. “... here, catch.” With no other warning, she pulls her hand back and gives it an underhanded toss toward you.

For some reason, you actually go for it, lunging toward the TV without a second thought. The flower, of course, doesn't fly out of the screen. You're left off-balance and more than a little embarrassed, mere centimeters short of knocking your TV over.

She snickers under her breath. “You see, Renko? Deep down, even you believe it can happen. It definitely can. You're the one who taught me that, even.” Her gaze lingers meaningfully on you before she looks back to the flowers in her lap. “It might not be easy, though.”

“If there's a way to fix this, we'll find it. I promise.”

“Mmhm. If you're on the case, I think everything will turn out okay.” 

Maribel turns her attention back to her work. You watch as she twines a few final stems into place, closing the daisy chain into a full circle. With that, she pulls her hat off and lowers the newly-finished flower crown onto her head. She adjusts it, then turns back to you. “So, how do I look?”

“You look, uh...” _like some kind of fairy princess or something._ You clear your throat to buy yourself a moment to think, and instead say, “You look nice.”

“Thank you.” The slightest flush flashes on her pale cheeks. You're pretty sure that you're blushing too, for that matter. Thankfully, since she's just as embarrassed as you are, she ushers the conversation along. “Ah, um, so, I've been wondering! This is apparently now a world where I never existed. Is the Sealing Club really just you now? I haven't seen you perform any club activities...”

“Ah. Er. Well.” The question makes you a little self-conscious. The Sealing Club in— _her world? The world, when she was still real?_ —went on trips to space and traveled to other dimensions. What have you ever done, by comparison? There are a handful of keepsakes, passed down from your grandma, that have managed to keep your faith in the supernatural alive. A photo of a gate in the Netherworld, with cherry blossoms on one side and a mundane graveyard on the other. A series of videos from her long-archived blog where she's bending spoons and levitating balls with her mind. A rock she brought back from 'some pyramid or another' that does, in fact, sharpen any razors you leave near it.

Even with some evidence for the occult, though, you haven't managed to do much with it. Tracking down the locations in her photographs either gets you nowhere, or leads you to places that don't seem any more special than anywhere else. The only assurance you have that the videos aren't hoaxes is gut instinct—she's your _grandma_ , after all. The rock makes a great conversation piece, but you've never gotten anybody with any authority to take it seriously.

There just isn't much of a case to be made for the supernatural these days.

“The club is doing okay,” you say, unconvincingly. “I haven't done many formal club activities lately, because I need to save my money for the summer. There's investigating you, I guess.”

"Ah. No other members...?"

"Not really. ... actually...”

You scoot over to a pile of notebooks in the corner. Your sorting algorithm isn't quite as organized as you might hope, and the stack has a mixture of lab observations, occult theorycrafting, lecture notes, and official records of Sealing Club activities. Near the bottom is the very oldest one. The paper is yellowed, and on the front, in lightly smudged handwriting, is written, “Official Sealing Club Membership.” You spread it open on the floor in front of you. Maribel leans forward, interested, until it looks like she might lose her balance and fall out of the TV.

The page contains the records of every Sealing Club member, stretching back to the club's foundation. 'Sumireko Usami,' half a dozen crossed out names. 'Sachiko Usami,' a few more crossed out names. 'Renko Usami.' There's only a single crossed out name below yours. You once got a freshman to join the club for three weeks before she quit, complaining that the club's reputation—that is, _your_ reputation—was preventing her from getting any dates.

You grab your pen and uncap it. Your tongue pokes out in concentration as you try to turn out something neater than your usually-sloppy writing. Once 'Maribel Hearn' is written on the list beneath your own name, you raise the notebook and show it to her. You smile as best as you can. "Normally the club has a five hundred yen application fee, but I'll waive it in your case."

Maribel laughs softly, but you can see that she's tearing up. “It's nice to be back.” She blinks the tears away, then lets out a slow breath. “I'm... glad that you're acknowledging me now, even if you don't remember. That first week or so, I felt so alone. Scared.”

You feel a pang of guilt. You could have saved her from that days earlier, if you'd just believed her the first time she appeared. “It's nice to _have_ you back. Anyway, not to ruin the mood, but... what do you think we should do next? We still didn't figure out how to investigate this.”

“I guess we didn't, huh?” Maribel looks grateful that the question gives her a few seconds to think and calm herself. “As much as I'd love to get things back to normal, this probably isn't the kind of problem we're going to solve overnight. We can take some time to think about solutions, I guess. I wouldn't mind a day or two to just... recover, anyway.”

“Right, of course. I'd offer to help, but I guess it would probably be kind of awkward considering I, er, forgot you. I could just tune the TV to something inoffensive and let you chill out, I guess?”

She shakes her head. “Not at all. Even if you don't remember me, you're still Renko. I'd enjoy the company. Hmm... um, actually... the weekend is coming up, isn't it? Do you have any plans?”

“Not really. Why?”

“If we're relaxing anyway, there's a place I'd like to show you. Do you feel up to a day trip?”

* * *

Imagine the existence of two timelines.

We'll call Maribel's timeline, the one where the two of you went on adventures together as part of the Sealing Club, timeline _T_.

There's also the timeline that you remember, the one in which there's no evidence of Maribel Hearn before she started talking to you through your television. Call that timeline _T′_.

You're already making some pretty big assumptions. The existence of multiple parallel timelines isn't compatible with a lot of interpretations of quantum mechanics. If this means that the Many-Worlds Interpretation is accurate, you're going to get offended on reality's behalf.

But wait, there's more.

All indications are that _T_ and _T′_ existed side by side, right? You and Maribel have two different, mutually exclusive pasts. But then how did you get to this current situation? How did Maribel from _T_ end up here with you, in _T′_? The idea of multiple histories isn't completely incompatible with existing theories, but it's still really weird. Things like that usually aren't so... macroscopic, either.

Or, what if _T_ was the original, lone timeline, like Maribel's version of the story suggests? What if that monster somehow altered the past and turned _T_ into _T′_? That doesn't sit well with you either. If it's true, did you, no-adventures Renko, even exist before the monster erased Maribel? If it's possible to rewrite history so simply, then causality doesn't mean a thing. Might as well throw entropy out while you're at it. As much as you hate to admit it, at that point, the Simulation Hypothesis starts looking reasonable. Maybe reality is just a long string of information, and the right editor can change the pieces whenever they want.

You've joked about Maribel being your imaginary friend, but just how real are _you_ , Renko Usami?

Okay, go back. Picture _T_ and _T′_ side by side again. Let's say that—

_WHOMP._

Your head smacks against the window, and your philosophical navel-gazing comes to an abrupt end. With a little grunt of annoyance, you stiffen up, rubbing at the point of impact, and begrudgingly open your eyes. You'd been trying to nap, but you can see that isn't an option. And the physics is definitely best saved until you're in a less hostile environment.

It's been two days since that talk with Merry, and here you are, on a bus that isn't so much 'old' as it is 'elderly.' It needs a good four or five seconds to scan for pedestrians at every intersection, its sensors making so many beeps and whirs that you imagine it's gossiping with the traffic computers. The frame creaks arthritically every time it hits a bump—which is pretty often, as the bruises on your scalp can attest.

Just getting this far required changing trains twice, hopping onto a bus in a modest rural village, and then transferring to this even smaller bus at an even smaller village. The first village was half-empty, and the second a ghost town—between lifespan regulations and the carbon cost of shipping things this far out, it isn't much of a surprise. Now, you're practically outside of civilization, with only the occasional crumbling farmhouse for scenery. The meadow footage is still looping on your phone, and you're wearing earbuds just in case Maribel wants to talk to you. Even here, on an empty, half-decaying bus, you feel the need to hide the fact that you're talking to inanimate objects.

The bus drops you off at a lonely, rusted stop, with a single house visible in the distance. You take off down the road under Maribel's direction, and soon, turn up a path into the forest.

“Hmm, this is looking more familiar,” she says. You glance down and find her leaning forward to peer through the phone's screen. You really have no idea how that works—how the motion makes any sense if she's living in your perception—but you can't help but find it a bit cute. “I think this is the right way!”

“You think?”

“Oh, um, well, I'm going off of memory. We've actually been here before. You led the way the first time, though. You usually do, with those weird powers of yours.”

“ _My_ powers are weird? Didn't you say that you teleported to space once?”

“It wasn't 'teleporting,' it was manipulating boundaries! It's way different.” Maribel sticks her tongue out, then gestures toward the trail. “Anyway, I think you want to turn right up here.”

There is, in fact, a narrow little path worn between the trees, running up a gully. Branches hang in on either side, draping curtains of leaves over the trail and forcing you to pick your way around more than one spider web. Soon, all signs of civilization have faded behind you. You're left with the sounds of wildlife and the occasional yawn or murmur from Maribel in your ear. For a born city-dweller like you, it's a little strange. You're used to the insulating background hum of cars, televisions, and conversation, even late at night. With all of that stripped away, you feel naked. Without thinking, you pick up your pace, and soon, you're sweating under the November sun.

The path edges up to a small cliffside, a five-meter vertical drop, then snakes around it down a step of narrow stairs worn in the dirt. They're precarious enough that you spread your legs out, carefully distributing your weight, as you creep down. It takes enough focus that you don't even notice the statue until you're right on top of it.

It's next to the path at the base of the stairs, half-shielded from the elements by a tree overhead. It's... old. A tanuki, carved out of weathered and pitted stone. There's text carved into the base, but over the years, it's worn away into indistinct bumps. The only sign that anybody else has been this way in the past century is a small plaque on the ground next to it: _'MOUNT JUROYAMA TANUKI. Erected in the Tenna era. Please do not touch.'_

“Is this the place?” you ask.

“Hmm? Can you let me see?”

“Oh, sorry. Um.” You flick your phone to activate the screen, bringing Maribel and the meadow back up, then lift it to point her at the statue. Theoretically, she could just slip back out of your perceptions to get a direct look herself, but she says that jumping back and forth across the boundary too often drains her.

“Oh, yes, this is it!” Maribel says. “It might not look like it, but this guy was a local tourist attraction for a while. A woman said her husband became a lot more... um... _potent_ after rubbing its head, and they finally had children after trying for six years. You can imagine what happened after that.”

“I see.” Now that she mentions it, there's a spot on the tanuki's head where all the algae and dirt has been rubbed away. Apparently there's a lot of demand for that kind of thing. “... if you brought me here to test that, you might be disappointed.”

“That's what you said last time, too.”

“I guess I'm predictable. Why did you want to bring me here, though? Er, no offense. It just doesn't look like much.”

“Oh, um... this was actually the first thing we ever investigated together. For the Sealing Club, I mean.”

“Oh.” You turn and look around. There isn't a lot to see. Just the normal tangled low mountainside forest, sloping up on either side. The path ends a short distance away. Presumably there isn't much out here except for this tanuki. … at least now you know that not _all_ of the investigations you've forgotten were exciting jaunts into space and stuff, you guess. “Huh... well, I don't think it's brought back any memories. Sorry.”

Maribel shakes her head. “I didn't think it would. It's just kind of, um, nostalgic, I guess. We'd only known each other for a month or so the first time we came out here. I'd just thought... well, it's kind of hard to explain. Sorry for making you come all this way just to see a statue.”

“It's fine,” you say, feeling a bit guilty when you see that apologetic expression on her face. “And we might as well stay and look around while we're out here. The next bus isn't for—“ You glance at the sky. One hour, fifty minutes, and twenty-four seconds. “—another two hours or so.”

You raise the phone as you stroll around the area, with Maribel facing forward. If somebody came down the path right now, they'd find you apparently giving a character from a TV show a grand tour of the place. Fortunately, it seems like this place's days as a tourist attraction are well behind it. You barely even see any signs of recent visitors. Just lots of slightly overgrown brush, threatening to crowd in over the centuries-old footpath in another few years.

You walk a hundred meters along the hillside, then back. A stiff breeze comes along, stirring the trees and forcing you to hold onto your hat, but you welcome it. Spending the entire trip back to Kyoto in sweaty clothes doesn't sound like a very good time.

As you approach the small cliffside again, Maribel gasps and leans forward, almost pressing herself up against the inside of the screen.

“Find something?”

“Yes! I, um. Wow. Hold on, I need to figure out what this means...”

“If I'm about to get eaten by an invisible tanuki or something, you have to let me know.”

“It isn't like that! There's just a boundary here. A supernatural one, I mean. It isn't very strong, but... could you please take me closer to the, um, cliff?”

You do so. A dried up creek bed runs along the base, and loose rocks crunch under your feet. You stand there for a few seconds, slowly moving the phone around in front of the cliff in an attempt to be helpful.

Maribel hmms in your ear. “I don't think I've ever seen a boundary like this before.”

“This wasn't here last time?”

“Last time we were here, we thought we saw a, you know, _actual animal_ tanuki watching us, and then it disappeared. We spent a while going through the woods looking around for it, but...” She glances thoughtfully back to the cliff. “It's really thin. I bet I could open it.”

“Do you know where it goes?”

“No, but I could give it a try anyway. It will be like a real Sealing Club activity!”

A little buzz of excitement runs through you. After all of those stories of times that you supposedly investigated space stations and other worlds with Maribel, you have to admit that you were a little jealous. This is the sort of thing you could have never done without her around.

On the other hand, don't tanuki occasionally eat people in old folk tales? You resist the urge to look around for a sturdy enough branch to use as a club. “Do you think it's safe?”

"I think I'll be fine. Besides, wouldn't you die of curiosity if we went home without looking?"

"Probably. … okay, I'm game."

“Great! I'll need to get out of your fantasies for it, so I'll be quiet for a while. Hold on.”

Maribel steps toward the edge of the screen, then disappears. Even after only a couple of days, it feels kind of weird seeing the meadow without her in it. You look up from the phone, but don't see anything around you. As far as you've been able to tell, when she's not in your perceptions, Maribel is effectively right next to you, so close that you could touch... but there isn't the slightest hint of her presence. Nonexistent people don't leave much of an impact on their surroundings.

You crouch down to wait, but it doesn't take long. In front of you, a thin black slit opens in the cliffside, like somebody sliced it open with a knife. The hole slowly stretches out, growing taller, and dim light shines from within. Then, it spreads open to either side. The dirt and stone simply fold aside like a curtain, compressing on themselves as space warps. The end result is a neat lens-shaped opening, a meter and a half tall. The view through it is fuzzy, like looking through frosted glass, but the space on the other side doesn't look very big.

You glance at the phone again. Maribel still isn't back. You wait, watching the digital grass blow in the wind for a minute or two. You suppose she might already be on the other side.

When you can't stand waiting any longer, you approach the gap. Dipping a single finger into it, you find that it's a bit less dramatic than you'd expected. There's no tingling feeling of stepping into another world. No unseen horrors bite off your fingertip. The air on the other side feels a little warmer, but it could just be your imagination. Leaning forward, you slide your full hand in, then your arm. Still nothing. Finally, you take a deep breath. In one slow, continuous motion, like easing into a hot bath, you step through.

A wooden floor groans as your weight settles onto it. You open your eyes to find that you're in a house, but it's a tiny one. The far wall is only four or five meters away, and the ceiling forms a dome overhead, held up by rough-hewn wooden beams. They hang low enough that you have to duck under one as you step forward. A single window on the far wall lets the sun in, and thousands of dust particles hang in the light, forming miniature constellations.

 _It's old_. It's the first thing that occurs to you, but it isn't wrong. Not just the architecture, but the furnishings, too. On one end of the room, a squat little cook stove, with a clay chimney running up the wall. A rack above it holds a single cooking pot, a few chipped cups, and the single vaguely modern-looking item in the room, a tin container of tea. Next to it, a rope hangs from one of the beams, barely visible under all the dried herbs and fruits dangling from it. Judging by how shriveled they are, they've been here a very, very long time. A shelf holds a strange assortment of curios. There's an ancient-looking futon rolled up in the corner, and next to that, finally, a cramped little desk.

You hesitate just inside the portal before cautiously moving forward, shooting a few cautious glances over your shoulder as you approach the desk. It's ornately carved, and at some point, it was probably beautiful. Now, its rich lacquer is hidden beneath a layer of dust. Every available surface is riddled with cubbies, most of which have scrolls or books stuffed into them. You can't resist. You reach into one and tug a scroll free. The paper feels stiff and brittle, but you unroll it as carefully as you can, making it crinkle and creak in protest as it's flattened out for the first time in ages.

The writing on the scroll is... unfamiliar. The characters are skeletal, curving things, with dozens of little tick marks around them in painstaking patterns. It's no language you've ever seen, and, you suspect, not one that you're going to find any records of. Part of you wants to sneak the scroll out of here and see if you have the next Voynich manuscript on your hands, but it just feels _wrong_. This is somebody's house. Or was, at least. Judging by the fact that they managed to hide it behind a barrier between worlds, probably not anybody you want to upset, either.

You pull out your phone and snap a few pictures, then flip back to the video player. The fact that the meadow is still empty is starting to worry you. You slide the scroll back into its cubby, glancing anxiously around the room. “Merry...? Did you come in here?”

No response. You creep back across the room, suddenly aware of just how much the floorboards creak under your feet, and look over the shelf. You're not sure if it's a collection of some sort, mementos, or just plain random objects. There's an old-style sake jug, and a careful shake reveals that there's still liquid inside. You leave it alone, regardless. Next to that is a blackened, shriveled hand that you really hope came from something non-human, a chipped vase, a wooden (puzzle?) box, and a jar full of cloudy grey fluid. You reach out for the box...

and hear a footstep behind you.

With a little yelp, you half-jump, half-whirl around. You hadn't realized just how tense you are right now. There's nothing behind you, though. You're still alone in the house. At least, there's nothing you can _see_. Maribel's existence has cast some doubt on your eyes' testimony, after all.

The air feels heavy and oppressive, like a tomb.

Maybe you aren't too far off.

Better to be safe than sorry. "I think I'm going to step outside now," you announce, in your most casual 'I'm not saying that anybody is haunting this place, but if there _is_ , I'd like them to know that I don't want any trouble' voice. "Merry, if you're still in here, I'll be waiting for you, okay?"

No response. You give the room a final, lingering look, snap another few pictures for documentation, and hurry back through the portal.

After the stale, dusty room, even the autumn air is refreshing. Once you're half a dozen meters from the portal, the feeling of tightness in your throat slowly releases, and you dare to slow down. The portal is still open behind you. Uncomfortable with the thought of taking your eyes off of it for too long, you crouch down at the base of a tree, pull your phone out, bring up the (still empty) meadow loop, and wait.

You watch a few minutes pass on your phone, the blinking colon in the time display counting out each and every second. Still no sign of Maribel. You glance at the video every few seconds, mentally fretting over it like a worry stone, and look at the portal almost as often. As minute six grinds on into minute seven, you push yourself to your feet and creep closer to the wall again. Would noise pass through the portal? If something terrible was happening on the other side, would you know?

You're just starting to rethink that 'find a stick to use as a club' plan when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye. The portal is sealing itself shut again, the stone and dirt sliding back together like rubber. Before it's even fully closed, Maribel speaks up in your ear. “I'm here. Sorry about that.”

Her voice is thin and tired, and lifting the phone, you find that she looks the part. If you hadn't seen her earlier, you'd guess that she's gone a few days without sleep. Her posture is crooked, her eyes are half-lidded, and she has a faraway expression that's a bit hard to read. “... is everything okay?”

“Hmm? Yeah. I just, um.” She turns and glances back toward the portal, as the last of the stone snaps into place and seals it. “You know how I don't like moving in and out of the phone too much, because it makes me tired?”

“Yeah?”

“That made me... really, really tired. I couldn't even make myself visible until just now.”

“Oh, I, er.” Your hand twinges at your side as you resist the urge to reach through the screen and wrap an arm around her. “Just take a second to rest, okay?”

“I'm fine, I promise.” Maribel sighs and brushes her hair back with her hand, tidying up a little. “... I still got a good look at the place, though.”

“Me too. I'm not sure what to think about it, though. It felt... off.”

“I think, um... I think it was where that tanuki lived. The one from the statue.”

“Oh.” Somehow, accepting that you just visited a tanuki's house comes pretty easily to you. Taking the paranormal in stride is becoming second nature. “... was? Is it, er, dead?”

“Or something. I don't know. This might sound strange, but there was definitely a... presence in there.”

“Like... you felt the tanuki? Did it try to talk to you or something?”

“No. It was weak. Really weak. I couldn't even see it. I think that... whatever used to live here, it doesn't really exist in any meaningful way anymore.”

It's a tanuki's house. A real, actual tanuki's house, and completely unoccupied. By all logic—heck, by the Sealing Club's own charter—you should head back in and photograph every single thing, if not haul all the scrolls off for further study. If there's even the slightest bit of truth to it, the house could be hiding secrets that would illuminate a dozen other occult mysteries.

Maribel cuts that train of thought short, though. “I think that maybe... this is what happens to a fantasy nobody believes in anymore,” she murmurs.

You wince, and your eyes linger over her. Perhaps her state has to do with a bit more than just exertion. The thought does make you worried. If you forgot about Maribel again one day, would she outright vanish? From her descriptions, it sounds like it's hard for her to stay anchored in reality without you. Can you sustain her indefinitely, though? You think of that presence you felt back in the house, of an old tanuki, robbed of its life and haunting the place like a ghost, forever intangible...

And back to the monster. It's still running loose. Has it already left somebody like that?

“Merry,” you say, in a tone that's much more confident than you currently are. “That thing that attacked you. Do you think we could find it again?”

“Huh?” It surprises her enough to jolt her out of her tired daze, straightening up and peering at you. “I mean, I don't know much more about it than you do, but I guess so. ... why?”

“I, uh.” You glance aside, not quite able to meet her eyes as you say the craziest thing you've ever said. “I don't think I could live with myself... if I didn't try to kill it.”


	4. Chapter 4

It doesn't take long for you to settle into a new schedule, one that's almost entirely based around Maribel Hearn. You go to class, but for the first time in your life, you skip some of your lectures, reading textbooks in front of the television to make up the material. A few of your professors comment on your sudden absenteeism, and you say that you're catching a new member of your club up to speed.

It isn't a complete lie. It feels like you're the one who's getting caught up, though. You have a two-hour block of time set aside every afternoon, solely for working through your shared history with Maribel. She tells you about long evenings spent investigating graveyards, historic battlefields, shrines, temples, power spots, and sketchy bars, searching for signs of other worlds. She tells you about how she started traveling to other places and times in her dreams, and how you were the one who kept her sane through it.

It can be difficult to remind yourself that for her, these are real memories, and not just fantastic stories. It still doesn't take long for a single, slightly bitter thought to take root in your head: The Renko who knew Maribel sounds like she had a lot more fun.

You're addicted to the stories anyway. Sure, they're fascinating tales of the occult, but that isn't it. Not really. It's Maribel. The Sealing Club has been a one-woman affair for too long. You've never had somebody else to talk to about these things, not like this. There was only so long that you could be satisfied by chatting about the occult online, in communities full of self-professed werewolves and psychics. ( _”My abilities don't work in the presence of cameras, which disrupt my brain's mu waves, so of course I can't offer any evidence...”_ ) None of your peers have ever been interested in this stuff—you made one foolish attempt to recruit members in your Intro to Physics class, three years ago, and still haven't lived it down. Maribel's the first occult investigator you've met outside of your own family.

And in the evenings...

In the evenings, you go monster-hunting.

* * *

It's a lot less interesting than you'd anticipated.

It's been three nights now, and you haven't seen a damn thing. The first night, you hung around Maribel's old neighborhood, hoping to encounter it close to the same point again. No such luck. After the first hour or two, you're pretty sure some of the locals started suspecting that you were casing their houses or something. You've moved on since, meandering around within a kilometer or so of that point where you first saw it, lingering occasionally in hopes of drawing it out.

What _do_ you use as bait for a reality-eating monster? You and Maribel debated it for most of an hour that first night, and never came to a conclusion. It isn't like you know how to make yourself more real than your surroundings. You briefly considered searching a few spots with lots of historical weight, but quickly ruled it out. You're pretty sure that you'd attract twice as much attention if you were hanging around, say, the perimeter of the imperial palace.

So here you are, lingering on a footbridge and pretending to be endlessly fascinated by the Takano River below.

For what's probably the fiftieth time tonight, you check your preparations. Which is to say, you pat the left side of your jacket and reassure yourself that your knife hasn't fallen out of the inside pocket.

It's a chef's knife, and it's the best weapon a broke college student can hope to both acquire and hide on her person. Out of some need to salve your pride a little, you've done your best to turn it into a lethal monster-slaying blade of legend—a full half-hour of sharpening (after watching a long tutorial online) followed by plastering it with every warding charm you were able to find (also online.) It looks ridiculous, even after you went to slightly embarrassing lengths to make it as cool as possible. But, you need every advantage you can get.

Besides, if you actually have to use it, looking silly is the least of your worries.

Another five minutes pass in silence, and you sigh, blowing a cloud of mist into the evening air. You should probably move to another spot soon. For now, desperate for stimulation, you check your phone.

“Still nothing, huh?” Maribel shoots you a sympathetic smile.

“Nope. Maybe it heard I was coming and got scared.”

“I'm sure that's it.” Maribel's seated on the ground of the fictional meadow, resting back on her hands. You're pretty sure that she's grown bored with it, but is too polite to say anything. There are only so many flower crowns that one person can weave in a lifetime. Seeing some fog rise up from your mouth, she frowns and adds, “Oh, is it really that chilly...?”

“There's a cold front coming in, I guess. The guy on the news said we might even get some snow tonight.”

“Then you should wear your scarf.”

“I would if I had a scarf.”

Maribel pauses. “... oh, that's right. I'm the one who got it for you...” She gives a belabored sigh and shrugs. “This just goes to show that you can't take care of yourself without me around. We'll have to fix that before you freeze to death.”

“I'm sure I'll manage, assuming I don't die of boredom before this monster ever shows up.”

Maribel nods along with you, but her expression droops. She glances guiltily aside. “Renko, you... really don't have to fight it, you know. We don't even know if it will help.”

It's a discussion you've had four times now. She's worried about you. That much is obvious. She's also _right_. Even you have to admit, there's a bit of a fairy tale quality to it—slay the monster and undo all of its evils in a single blow, and the curse shall be lifted from the princess. You've even got a magic sword, assuming a chef's knife counts. It probably won't work. But what else can you do? Even if it doesn't restore Maribel, the world's a better place if that thing isn't out there eating people.

You open your mouth to put words to those thoughts, but something draws your attention instead.

It's your hand.

It's right in front of you, holding your phone, but it looks so far away. Somehow you've never noticed it before. You raise your other hand, holding it in front of yourself, and slowly clench your fingers. The flesh moves, and while you logically know that you're responsible, it's the most mysterious thing you've ever seen. If somebody held a gun to your head, right here and now, could you even say how you're doing it? You can't point to the thought that tells your hand 'yes, do this,' any more than you precisely trace the edges of a cloud.

“... Renko? Are you okay? You've been kind of... zoned out for a few seconds.” Maribel's voice finally breaks through your daze, and you realize she's been talking all along.

“I'm—I think.” Talking is hard, because those sounds bleating out of your throat no longer quite sound like words. They're something else. Some collection of noises with no meaning and no pattern, as opaque as whale song. “I think it's here,” you jabber out, hoping that your words mean something to her, because they certainly don't to you.

Maribel makes noises, and they mean nothing to you. Your hands are shaking now, but one turns off your phone and tuck it away, then rests on the handle of your knife. You can't say for sure whether you told your hand to do that, or it just happened.

And yes, the monster _is_ here.

It steps onto the far end of the bridge. This time, it's wearing the face of a young woman. She's around your age, maybe a year or two older, dressed fashionably and with a tiny clutch dangling from one hand. She looks completely unconcerned with you as she starts across the bridge, her steps sending the slightest vibrations across its surface.

Except, she isn't. Your thoughts are scattered, and the world still feels like a puppet show, but you take a step backward and force yourself to focus. It's all a lie. She's flickering in and out of existence, disappearing and reappearing with every step, like a performer caught in a strobe light. Or: she's standing still, swaying side to side and peering hungrily over you. Or: she's chatting on her phone, a little panda charm dangling from the corner, her free hand gesturing excitedly in the air. She's doing all of them at once, a million states of existence superimposed over each other.

She's doing none of them, because this monster erased her, stole all of those moments, and made them its own.

She comes to a stop, barely a meter away, and looks over you. You're not sure if that's recognition in her face, or if you just imagined it. You tighten your grip on the knife.

There's no hesitation this time. The monster lunges forward.

It slams into you, knocking you backward. You rebound off the bridge's railing, and grabbing onto it is the only thing that stops you from collapsing to the ground. The woman moves with you, clinging to your waist, her fingers digging into your skin for purchase. You can see it now. Her appearance is a costume, a thin suit, and now it's splitting apart to let that writhing static flow out and envelope you like quicksand. Where it touches, you feel only pressure and a strange, urgent tingling, like a million bees swarming in your skin.

The adrenaline rush cuts through your daze, at least. You swing your foot, and it connects with something solid, a meaty thud. Once, twice, three times you kick it, then stomp down, grinding your heel into it. The mass shivers in response, but if it's wounded, it isn't showing it. It creeps further upward, that tingling sensation spreading up your stomach, and you give it a firm shove.

Your hand sinks in up to the wrist. The numb sensation overtakes it. You aren't sure you even have a hand anymore.

“G-get...!” You slash down with the knife, driving it into the girl's shoulder and a formless expanse of emptiness. It stabs in without much resistance, the not-flesh parting as smoothly as gelatin, and comes away clean. “Off of me!” Another few stabs.

The thing isn't concerned. It keeps spreading upward, until you can feel that burning sensation at the bottom of your chest, a cross-section through your abdomen. It's looking less and less like the girl by the second. Her face flickers before being replaced by a bulging blob, as thick as your thigh and stretching toward your head. You shy back, and for just a second, your vision is clear enough to make it out—the staticky form of the monster, no longer quite obscured by all the realities jittering around it. Trophies of its conquests float around on its surface, some half-submerged like sinking ships—eyes stare listlessly into space here, a hand gropes at nothing there. Mere centimeters in front of you, the girl's face floats up from its depths, bobbing on the surface for a moment before settling into position. She locks eyes with you, leaning closer and spreading her mouth wide...

Probably best not to worry about the fact that you can't feel your chest anymore. You squirm around until you can raise your arm, the knife clenched in your fingers. After a deep breath, you grit your teeth, then drive the blade straight into the girl's face.

It offers the slightest resistance before snapping in half, as brittle as a dry leaf.

Immediately, the thing stops enveloping you. A tremor runs through it, and some soundless noise shakes the air around you.

You don't let the reprieve go to waste. You shove off the railing, lunging forward and driving the monster back, thrusting the blade into it again and again. Soon, you're gripping the handle with both hands, hacking away chunks and sending them flying. Where they land, they sizzle and crinkle up to form itchy-looking scabs on the pavement.

The blade connects with another obstacle somewhere in there, and another. Another blank-eyed face crumbles away, and you'd swear that for just a moment at the end, you saw gratitude in its expression. “I, I'm sorry!” you stammer out, but don't let it slow you down. One by one, you smash the realities this thing has woven around itself.

The form beneath is something twitching and _wrong_. Like the sun, you can't quite look at it—you have to make out details with furtive glimpses from the corner of your eye. If the thing in front of you ever had a shape, it lost it long, long ago, and your brain has no idea what to make of that. Chunks of it jitter to the sides every few seconds, warping away and then back, like glitches in a video game. Its surface trembles violently, like hot oil, and you get the sense that it's in pain. You've stripped off its protections and now, bared for the intruder it is, reality is rejecting it.

There are only one or two more masks still floating in its depths. You're _winning_. The monster sinks back as you drive the blade down again and again, a vicious growl rising in your throat...

Your last swing comes down on nothing. The blade whistles through the air, and you barely avoid throwing yourself to the ground face-first.

The monster isn't there anymore.

It's suddenly a few meters away, vibrating in what you can only read as outrage. It lashes out without warning, and you barely manage to scramble aside, just in time to see a flickering limb slice through the spot where you'd been a moment before. There's no breeze, not the slightest vibration to announce its passage. Where it touches the railing, it glides soundlessly through. The metal vanishes under its touch, as neat as the eraser in an image-editing program. It leaves a few stumpy, sharp-edged gaps in the supports, and the railing sags downward with a groan.

You get just a moment to take this in before the monster twitches and reappears again. Now it's a few meters behind you, and closing fast.

Apparently if reality isn't accepting it, it isn't going to play by reality's rules, either.

You shout, in some wordless sound best approximated as 'WARGH!' You scramble away so fast that you nearly trip over your own feet in the process.

From the very corner of your eye, you can see the monster following you. You don't dare to look back.

The area's mostly low-rise apartment buildings and tiny offices, with the occasional convenience store or bar thrown in for color. That isn't good, because it means there are other people around. There are people around, and you're running down the street with a knife while being chased by a face-eating amoeba with an attitude problem. Heads turn as you round a corner, and you wave your free hand wildly overhead. “Run! Out of the way! It's dangerous!” It's all the more warning you're going to be able to give. In your wake, you hear a few shouts of surprise and confusion, and you're not sure if they're reacting to you or the monster.

It appears in front of you, a writhing wound in the world's flesh, and you barely manage to correct your course before you slam into it. It lashes out some phantasmal limb, barely missing you by a matter of centimeters. There's no wind in its wake, not the slightest sound. It's like you're fighting a shadow.

Reaching another corner, you turn and ricochet down a narrow alley between two apartments. It's littered with the detritus of city life, bikes and crates of recycleables and potted plants. Now, at least, you can hear the monster's progress behind you, as it erases vital load-bearing chunks of all of these and topples what's left. You can hear it behind you, and _it's gaining_. Better think fast.

Silently praying for forgiveness, you swat a row of trash cans as you run past, spilling the contents behind you. That definitely didn't accomplish anything. It doesn't slow for a second. You rack your mind for better ways to slow it down, but it doesn't seem to care about the laws of physics. This is explicitly not a situation where your skills come in handy.

You leap over a few abandoned toys, weave past a bike, and plow through a wall of drying laundry. The mouth of the alley is approaching. If you can make it into a more open area, maybe you can lose it somehow? No telling what kind of sensory organs that thing has, but at this point, you're running out of options. You'd rather not put other people in danger, but if this thing eats you here and now, you don't think it's exactly going to go to a strict vegetarian diet in the future. And if you die here, who knows how Merry will—

The monster is suddenly in front of you. It slams into you, and your thoughts scatter in a rib-bruising surge of motion.

When the world stops blurring, you find that you're plastered to the wall. Rough bricks press against your back, scraping your skin as you struggle. Under the circumstances, this is something like #108 on your list of concerns, somewhere around the fact that your hair's a bit messy after the run, and way, way, way lower than 'this monster is gonna eat my face.'

That's when the monster eats your face.

You struggle to free your arms, but they're both pinned, submerged in that _nothingness_ that isn't even numb. It's hard to say if you even still have the knife. The bulk of the monster swells up, rising above you without casting a shadow, its form shuddering in what you can only read as a vengeful manner. Your body feels tiny now, everything sinking into oblivion except the spark of consciousness in your head, and a chill runs through even _that_ —

From somewhere in the monster's depths, your face rises up, like a buoy floating to the surface of the ocean. Your eyes are blank and staring straight ahead. It wobbles a few times, bouncing in place as it settles.

You stare at it, horrified, for a moment. Just a moment. Then, the monster retreats.

It's as fast as ever. One moment, you're a goner, drowning in a void. The next, your feet touch down on the ground, and you have to flail your arms to keep your balance. The knife falls to the pavement by your side.

You catch the otherworldly, colorless streak of the monster flitting away.

And, you're alone in the alley again.

You're frozen in terror, staring at the spot where the thing vanished, You'd sort of been expecting to die, so you hadn't really made any plans for the next few seconds. Only after this initial shock does reality seep back in. Your heart's pounding, you're out of breath, there are some scrapes on your arms and you got a cut on your cheek at some point, but you are, against all odds, _alive_.

With shaking hands, you scoop up the knife and hide it back in your jacket. You pull out the phone and turn it on.

The meadow stands empty—no Maribel. Just as you start to worry that something might have happened, she scrambles into the frame and rushes up to the screen. “Renko! Are you okay?!”

“I. I, uh.” You adjust your hat, then stare at your hand for a second. It doesn't have that weird, otherworldly feeling you've learned to associated with the monster's presence. And you're holding your phone. If it had erased your existence, you wouldn't even be capable of that much. “I think so? It—this might sound weird, but do I have a face?”

“You definitely have a face.” She flashes you a weak smile that soon melts away into worry. “I was able to watch most of the fight. I know it... got to you, but this really isn't like when it ate me. I was just... gone. So maybe you're okay?”

You give a slow nod, and convince yourself to stop staring at your hand. “What _did_ happen? Why would it spare me?”

“I think that maybe... well, you hurt it pretty badly. I'm not sure it can survive in reality for long without anything to keep it going. Like, um, a human with air, you know? Maybe it just got what it needed and then... ran away?”

“Ran away.” You almost laugh at the absurdity of the idea. The thing that just effortlessly pinned you to a wall, _running away_. Maybe she's right, though. It seemed like you were on the verge of winning earlier on. Maybe you really did come close to wiping it out.

'Renko Usami, monster hunter.' It sounds pretty nice, huh?

“I really hope you're right,” you say, and look in the direction where the monster fled. You let out a sigh, releasing a week's worth of tension in one go. “I think that's enough for one evening, though.”

You slip your earbuds in and tuck your phone away, leaving Maribel confined to audio-only. She doesn't seem to mind it, and you've gotten over your earlier hesitance about talking to her like this. To anybody else, it just looks like you're taking a phone call. Your hands in your pockets, you step out of the alley and back onto the street, doing your best to look casual and not, you know, give off 'girl who just had a knife fight with a monster' vibes.

When you think about it that way, this is the coolest you've ever felt.

As your adrenaline rush fades, your mood slowly improves. You did it. You faced that thing in a fight, dealt it an apparently-dire wound, and lived to tell the tale. Almost as nice, you haven't heard any sirens yet, so apparently nobody called the cops. Nobody got hurt. Sure, there's the matter of finishing it off, but you've proven that you can beat it once. You'll be more prepared for round two.

“So, um,” Maribel says, after a few blocks. “I think I saw enough to get a better guess of what that thing is.”

“Huh, really?” This just keeps getting better and better. “What do you think?”

“I think it's... a god, or a youkai, or something.”

“Uh. Huh. It'd be pretty weird even by youkai standards, wouldn't it?”

“Mmh.” She gives a soft noise of disagreement. “Not, like, a normal one. Remember that tanuki I felt in the abandoned house? More along those lines. A youkai or a god has to depend on human belief, right? What do you think happens when a god gets forgotten? Like, _really_ forgotten, so there's no longer any proof they even exist? They'd just... fade away. They'd have even less of an existence than I do now.”

“So, like... a starving, feral god.”

“If you think about it, there have to be tons of those, right? There are probably billions of tiny religions and myths that died out before they really spread anywhere. And maybe, if you fade away, and just keep on fading... after a while, you'd just be _gone_. You wouldn't even have an identity. But whatever pieces were left, I bet they'd be really, really jealous of the people who still existed...”

“So you're saying that this, uh, forgotten god sat around for a few millennia, and then here you come, opening a hole from reality to fantasy, and it took its chance for a jailbreak?”

“Something like that. I don't think it's actually _eating_ people's existences. I think it's just... wrapping itself in them for protection. Like. Um.”

“... like slicing open a tauntaun and climbing inside for warmth?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. It's a thing from an old movie. I think I get what you mean, though.” You pause mid-step. You're right in front of a convenience store now, you realize. You're in front of a convenience store, and you just scored a big victory that deserves a bit of celebration. … convenience store food isn't _much_ of a celebration, but it's about the scale that your budget will support. “One sec. I want to grab some snacks. You can keep talking, but I might have to keep it kind of vague on my end.”

The door slides open, and an outgoing customer plows into you so hard it almost knocks your hat off. You grumble and slip past him into the interior, still air conditioned despite the increasingly short days.

“That's most of my theory, anyway. That explains the... faces and stuff, right? It's wrapping itself up in all the existences it's stolen, like armor or something.”

“It's quite a theory.” You grab a soda while you consider your next words, choosing them carefully so you don't just start talking about dead gods four meters from the cashier. He probably isn't paid enough for that kind of thing. “That's a pretty big leap to make on a little bit of evidence, though.”

“Well, it isn't as much of a guess as it sounds like. I've seen more of these things. The place I was before I found you again was full of them. I think, um... I think they'd rip me to pieces if they knew I had even a spark of existence left.”

“Er. That sounds pretty brutal. Are you safe?”

“I am as long as I have you.”

You dip your head in an uncertain nod. That's a worrying statement, but pressing her for any more details will have to wait until you're in private. Choosing the right kind of snack takes some more thought, anyway—they don't have your go-to brand of chocolate, and they've got that one seasonal flavor of mango-habanero chips you've been pretty fond of lately...

You settle for a pack of some kind of new churro-flavored multigrain cracker. You're a monster hunter now, after all. The least you can do is eat healthy. … healthy-ish.

The cashier is idly surfing on his phone as you approach. He's facing toward the window, so you make a little extra noise to draw his attention, rustling the bag and letting the soda bottle clink against the counter.

He doesn't even twitch. You eye him for the usual signs of earbuds or conduction headphones, but nothing. Dude's apparently _really_ into whatever mobage he's playing. You clear your throat. “Excuse me.”

Still nothing. “Excuuuuse me.”

Finally, you lean over and wave the soda bottle in front of his face.

He yelps, and stumbles back in enough shock that he nearly plows over the display rack behind him.

“... sorry. You just seemed kind of out of it.” You fish in your pocket and pull out your card. “It's been a really long night for me too, though, so I know the feeling.”

He stares... not at you, but sort of _through_ you.

“I'd like to, er.” You wave your card in the air. “Pay?”

He stares some more.

After about five seconds, something apparently clicks in his head, and he sort of crumples with relief as recognition takes shape behind his eyes. “Oh. Oh! Sorry about that.” He dips his head in a hurried apology, his hands already moving to scan the items. “Will that be credit?”

It's kind of a shock to discover that your weirdness threshold hasn't been smashed to pieces yet, because this definitely registers. It's weird enough that you stare back at him for a moment before you remember your manners. “Oh, yeah, don't worry about it. Credit's fine.”

You wave your card past the sensor. It buzzes irritably, and a red message flashes on the screen..

You give him that anxious 'I _swear_ I have money, this doesn't usually happen' look and swipe it again. Again, your card is rejected.

You're starting to have some unfortunate suspicions about all of this, but it's really important not to jump to any conclusions just yet. “A-ah, um. One second.” Hurriedly, you fumble your phone out and turn it on, flick past the very brief glimpse of Maribel—you'll explain it to her later. Your banking app is still open from earlier, and you pull it up, hit Refresh...

The screen, proudly displaying the 984 yen balance you'd had this morning, disappears. It's replaced with: 'ACCESS VALIDATION: INCORRECT ACCOUNT NUMBER OR PASSWORD.'

A tremble runs through your body, and you can feel that earlier confidence just sort of plummeting straight out of you and running down the nearest storm drain. You try to login again, enter your password three more times just in case. Each one fails. It takes a few more seconds to convince yourself to look up at him again. “Ah. Er. I think I should probably pass for now. Sorry.”

The cashier's already messing with his phone again. You're not sure he even heard you.

Or if he even remembers that you were there in the first place.

At least it means you don't need to even pretend to be calm as you rush out the door, and then another two or three blocks for good measure before you fish your phone out. Maribel's still waiting in the meadow, looking a mix of surprised and baffled. “... Renko? Is something wrong?”

“A little,” you concede. You struggle to organize your thoughts, trying to find a good way to build up to this, but it feels like the truth will burn its way out of you if you don't get it out there as quickly as possible. “I, uh, I think maybe I don't _entirely_ exist anymore?”


	5. Chapter 5

Over the next few days, you discover just how far the missing chunks of your life extend.

As far as strangers are concerned, you're effectively invisible. You walked down the street that first day, and it was like a game of bumper cars. People bumped into you from every direction, including, at one point, a quick-moving jogger plowing right into you from behind.

When you go into stores, you have to jump up and down in front of cashiers to get their attention. Your bank account is gone. Your phone and internet accounts aren't. Your library card doesn't even exist anymore as far as you can tell, but your phone still has notifications informing you you that you have a few books (old occult references you checked out during your early encounters with Maribel) overdue. Apparently the lines that the monster carved through your existence are messy and not all that logically consistent.

Of the four classes you're enrolled in this quarter, one seems fine, two more professors recognize you but have no record of you enrolling in the course, and one manages to sit and read at his desk for twenty minutes while you try to get his attention.

You sure do lead one heck of a strange half-existence.

You're tempted to perform some experiments to see just what you can tease out of it. Weird monster or not, it still has to have some kind of scientific basis, right? You have mass, there are photons bouncing off of you, and those photons are reaching people's eyes. So why don't they see you? Is it a purely psychological phenomenon? If not, if there's some kind of physical basis for existing but not _existing_... well, you don't like the mouthfeel of that one. It feels like the kind of theory you'd find in a new age-y book that twists the word 'quantum' around until it looks like a pretzel.

It's a mystery that would keep you up at night, if you didn't already have about four better reasons.

Today, you attend one of your lectures—the professor doesn't take attendance and you're almost certain she wouldn't notice your presence anyway, but you're still a student, dammit. Ten minutes into the lecture, some kid stumbles in, late, and manages to sit on top of you before he realizes the seat's occupied. You're supposed to have a two-hour lab afterward, but... the odds of getting anything out of the lab like this seem slim-to-nil. You head home instead.

By now, you've got the TV programmed to turn on as soon as you step in the door. The now-familiar meadow scene pops up, and soon, Maribel slips into view. She can't hide her worry as she looks over you. “Another rough day, huh?”

“Somebody walked right into me at lunch and spilled spaghetti on my skirt. I got a message this morning that the power's going to be turned off if I don't pay my bill soon, but when I try paying, it says my account number's invalid.” You toss your bag into the corner and flop down into the now-familiar nest of blankets in front of the TV. “Not existing sucks.”

Maribel flashes a sympathetic smile. “It does.”

You know what you want to say next. It's been lingering on the tip of your tongue, ready to spill out, for a day or two. Now, you're finally to the point where you can't hold it back any longer.

“I've been thinking,” you say, trying to sound more reluctant than you actually are. “... I need to finish the job.”

“Finish the...?” She trails off, peering down at you uncertainly, then with worry. “Fighting that thing again, you mean? Renko... You barely escaped last time.”

Maribel's voice is soft, with the slightest quaver. It's enough to take the edge off of your determination, but you aren't going to give up quite that easily. “I've had a good look at it. I'm more prepared now.”

“From the monster's perspective, isn't it more like you're wounded prey?”

“I hurt it too,” you say, with the slightest defensive tone. “We both agree that I almost won last time, right? If those mask things are what's letting it stay in reality, I came _this_ close to killing it. I only need another shot.”

“Are things really so bad right now? Being completely erased would be a lot worse, wouldn't it?”

“Well... yes, but—“

“You don't need to worry about me. If, um, you're doing all of this for my sake, I mean. I'll be fine.”

“But it—nobody else even remembers you. You can't tell me you'd be happy spending the rest of your life in a virtual field. It might not just save you if I kill that thing. It will stop it from erasing other people.”

Maribel gives the ghost of a nod, conceding the point. “I know,” she says, softly. “But... as long as I still have you, I'm happy. I don't want to lose that, Renko.”

It's a bit of a confession. You stare at her, at a complete loss for words.

A few seconds pass as you consider that, consider this whole weird mess—how the heck did you even end up _here_? Two weeks ago, your biggest concern was the fact that you'd gotten some weird experimental results in a lab that's worth 10% of a course's grades, and the TA wouldn't let you check the calibration on the equipment. Now, you're arguing with the semi-real girl inside your TV over whether to fight a monster to the death or live on in half-existence. Unbelievable.

“Merry...” You scoot closer to the screen. “Please think about it. Do you really think you could live your whole life as a, uh, _quale_ in my head?”

“I think it's better than watching you die trying to save me.”

“But it's only been a week. Do you think you'd be able to take this for months? Or years?”

“It's better than letting you die,” she repeats.

“You don't think you'd go stir-crazy?” You realize, halfway through the sentence, that you're getting worked up, but it's hard to back down. You can't tolerate the thought of Maribel passively sacrificing herself to protect you. “There isn't _anything_ you'd miss?”

Apparently your exasperation shows in your voice. Maribel sort of flinches, and her gaze drifts down to the ground. “I didn't say it would be easy.” Her expression is hard to read. “There is... one thing I really miss, actually.”

Her expression turns sad and thoughtful, and you give her time to work through whatever is going on inside her head. She looks back up, meeting your gaze, and stretches a hand toward the screen. Her fingers stroke downward through the air, like she's petting it. “I miss being able to touch you.”

There are a lot of ways you'd thought she might finish that sentence, but that isn't one of them. You make a little sputtering sound and resist the urge to tug your hat down to hide your face. Your first instinct is to protest being teased like that, but a single look at her expression is all it takes to convince you that she's serious. She's smiling, but it's a bitter one.

“I. Er.” You stare. This is almost, but not quite, like being flirted with, and you've never quite gotten the hang of that. You're the president of an occult investigation club who reads books on special relativity for fun. This attracts remarkably little flirtation.

Before you can stumble into an actual sentence, Maribel takes pity on you and explains. “We were dating, you know. Before... all of this.”

_Oh._

Oh. That explains some things.

You've allowed yourself to consider the possibility once or twice—either that you and Maribel might have been a pair before, or that it might be an option in the future. As familiar as she's been with you, as natural as talking to her as felt, you can't say it's a surprise, but it's definitely a _shock_. You're in a relationship. You have a _girlfriend_. This isn't the kind of thing that people usually discover after the fact.

“I'm sorry.” Maribel sighs. “I know you don't remember. I'd been trying to keep that to myself so you didn't feel... obligated or anything.”

“No, er, I...” You reach out, lightly touching the spot where her hand had been seconds earlier. “... I understand. Sorry. This is hard for you, huh?”

She looks surprised, but rests her hand against yours on the other side of the screen. You can almost convince yourself that you feel a little warmth leaking through. She flashes a weak smile. “The whole thing has been hard. I could have lived with being intangible. But having you forget me... it hurts.”

“I'm sorry.”

You sit in awkward silence. Maribel sniffles a few times. After a minute or two, she pulls her hand away from the screen, and you remove your own.

“That's all the more reason to try fixing this, I think,” you say softly, without daring to meet her gaze. “You've lost a lot, Merry. I want to help you get it back.”

“You're really not going to back down, are you?”

“I just found out that thing has attacked my girlfriend. I can't just ignore _that_ , can I?”

She lets out a quiet, bittersweet laugh. “Your memories are pretty different, but you're still the same Renko. You never would back down from a challenge.” A sigh. She plucks a daisy and frets with the petals while she thinks. “... I know where you can find it. After that last encounter, I realized that I can, um, sense that thing. I think I know where it's staying. Enough to point you in its direction, at least. I wanted to keep you safe, but if you're going to look for it anyway, I'll do what I can to help.”

You can tell that it's tearing her up inside, agreeing to this. It makes you feel a flash of guilt, but you stamp it down. Right now, she needs you to be reassuring and confident. “Thank you. I'll try not to let you down.”

“I know you never would.”

She's trying to act happier, for your sake. She's also still worried. You can't exactly blame her. Try as you might, you can't convince yourself that this is a foolproof plan. At best, it's the least-bad option available to you.

You, too, try to look upbeat. Neither of you manage to fake it for long.

You can think of one way to lighten the mood, though. A single one.

“I don't need to rush into it. There's no reason I have to fight that thing tonight or anything. Should probably wait until my bruises heal up anyway. Before then, um.” You look her in the eyes. “... do you want to go on a date?”

The question gets her to look up from her lap, at least. She blinks in surprise, the slightest hint of a flush on her pale cheeks. “A date?”

“A date,” you repeat. “I know I don't really remember our relationship from before, and I'm... kind of new to all of this. But sure.”

“A-ah, um. I'm flattered, but that really isn't necessary. You don't need to feel obligated or something just because we were dating before, or—“

You shake your head. “I enjoy spending time with you, Merry.” Judging by her expression, she still isn't convinced. You add, “Look, um. You're a fantasy, I halfway exist, I'm not even sure I'm the same Renko you remember, and we could both get eaten by a reality-devouring monster tomorrow. I don't think either of us are exactly in a position to commit to anything long-term. But... something casual, maybe?”

Logically, you know this is a bad idea. There are psychological biases that make you more attracted to people when you're stressed. They've known that for a _century_. Putting that aside, you really can't sort out how many of your emotions toward Maribel are genuine, how many are in response to her own feelings toward you, and how many might be weird echoes of half-erased memories.

Emotionally... even if nothing else, you've listened to her pour her heart out to you two or three times. You want to climb into the TV and sprawl out in that meadow with her and refuse to leave until she's told you about every second of your lost shared history. Within the past few days, you you realize, your daydreams have started theorizing about what her lips might taste like. (Honey, a hint of cherry—apparently, in your fantasies, she's always fresh from nibbling on pastries.)

Thankfully, she can't read minds, or you'd die of embarrassment on the spot. Her flush deepens, but her smile looks far more genuine now. “Well, I'm not sure what a date would even involve. It isn't like I can catch dinner and a movie with you... um, well, I could step into the movie, but that would be pretty awkward. I wouldn't even get any popcorn out of it.”

“Let me worry about that. I'll handle everything, even. If there's a chance that I'll lose and that thing will erase me for good... we should make our last memories together really good ones, right?”

* * *

Preparing for a virtual date takes a surprising amount of work.

First, and most obviously, is finding a venue. Which is to say, finding footage to plop Maribel into. You're pretty sure that she's sick of the meadow by this point, and you've been meaning to offer her some changes of pace anyway. The search isn't quite as painful this time—you spent a lot of time sorting through options during the first round, and you're a bit better at video editing now to boot. Altogether, it takes a couple of days, but you manage to put together a few surprises that you're particularly proud of. 

Finding the right setting on your end takes almost as much work, though. Carrying out the date in your apartment just isn't an option. Properly cleaning the place would take hours, and between your near-total lack of funds and the fact that 90% of store clerks can't see you, buying enough ingredients to cook a nice meal isn't likely to happen either. You're sick of staying cooped up, anyway.

Most go-to date spots aren't very good either. Restaurants aren't really an option when you're invisible to waiters. Movies... would be weird with Maribel's current nature. A park seems like a natural choice, but judging by your luck lately, you'd get run over by a bicyclist or something.

And then, after a few hours of consideration, you realize somewhere that nobody, _nobody_ will interrupt you.

It doesn't require any additional preparation, either, but you'll need to bring your own food. 

On the day of the date, you scrape together every bit of cash you can find around your apartment. It's enough to buy what you need, barely. The harder part is actually conducting the transactions. You need to go to three separate places, and at each one, you have to spend a few minutes getting the cashier's attention. Theoretically speaking, there isn't much stopping you from just walking behind the counter and grabbing whatever you want. Morally speaking, you'll only consider it if your lack of presence means you'll go hungry otherwise. At the moment, it isn't so much a 'steal a loaf of bread to feed your starving family' situation as it is a 'steal some pastries because you'd feel silly eating convenience store food on a date' one.

You head for the date.

You've got Maribel on the honor system—she didn't peek while you crafted her virtual date spot, and now, she's going to tag along behind you without getting a good look at your surroundings. You're not sure how that works on her end, but she assures you that it does.

It's about a six kilometer trip, so you spend the last of your money on a two-way bus ticket. You're broke now. It doesn't matter, because you head out to slay the monster tomorrow morning. If you kill it and regain your existence, you can call your parents and bum some money off them. If the monster wins, cash is the least of your concerns.

Your destination is very, very easy to find. Being practically invisible, getting in isn't even an obstacle. You walk right past a few security guards and staff, and none of them pay you a moment's notice.

Once you're in position, you spread your meal in front of you, prop the phone up against a railing, and load it up.

The video's already onscreen. It shows a restaurant, dim and lit by flickering candles. In the distance, couples sit at every table, making muffled conversation over dinner and wine. Soft music fills the air. The foreground, though, is dominated by a tablecloth, with a single place set directly in front of the camera.

You aren't waiting long. After a few seconds, Maribel steps into the frame, then pauses. She turns side to side, surveying her surroundings, and takes dainty steps forward like she's afraid to draw attention to herself. “Oh, wow. This is fancier than anywhere we went when I actually existed! I'm kind of impressed, Renko.” She turns, smiling up at you... then peers at your surroundings, surprised. “Er. Where are _you_ , though?”

“I'll give you one guess. Here.” You lift the phone up, holding it in both hands to keep her view stable, and slowly turn it around to give her a full tour of the place—behind you, a golden wall, glittering in the setting sun. In front of that, equally-golden railings, and a tranquil pond below, studded with tiny islands. By the time you rotate the phone back to face you again, Maribel has a pretty quizzical expression.

“Renko...” she says slowly. “Are you in Kinkaku-ji?”

“Well... 'in' is kind of a strong word. I'm sitting on a balcony. … I never got to visit it before they closed it down for renovations, and at this rate, I might not live until 2072 or whenever it's supposed to reopen. … technically it's off-limits, but if I'm going to be invisible, I should at least get something out of it.”

“Hmm... you're probably the first person to be alone in there in decades. You're _definitely_ the first person to use it for a dinner date in a while.”

“Sneaking into a World Heritage Site has its perks. I'm not sure why people don't do it more often.”

“I see. How are you liking it?”

“Mmh... it's pretty from a distance, but up close, it's just some building that happens to be covered with gold. The floor's kind of creaky, actually.”

“You should leave a negative review. I'm sure they'll get right on that.” Maribel pulls her chair out and takes a seat. “I should probably disapprove, but now that I think about it, that time we snuck onto the TORIFUNE was probably a way bigger crime...”

“ _You're_ the one who did that. I'm not about to take the fall for the Me from an existence that got erased.”

“It's a foolproof alibi.” Maribel folds her hands beneath her chin, then glances around. “What about my end? Where'd you find a video like this?”

“It's from a movie. The director's a real auteur type, so he put out all the footage from every camera angle. It's some kind of statement on filmmaking or something? I don't really get it, but the best part iiiis...”

You raise a finger in anticipation. You'd be lying if you said you didn't spend time practicing this last night. Way, way too much time practicing it, actually. You still don't have the timing down perfectly, though. Maribel's left waiting in confusion for a few seconds before a waiter finally walks up, edging into the side of the screen, and slides two plates in front of her. One has a hefty heap of pasta. The other has some sort of long pastry with creamy white innards, leaking red filling from one end.

“Oh!” Maribel stares down at it in amazement. “... you know, I don't think I've actually eaten anything since this all started. You should really watch more shows with food in them, Renko.”

“That couple at the table behind you are the main characters. There's supposed to be this big plate of uneaten food in this shot to represent their failing marriage or something? The point is, it's all yours. Nobody's going to bother you.”

“Oh, then I'm very grateful to them.” Maribel turns and blows a kiss toward the distant couple. The fictional pair don't even react, continuing with the quarrel they'll be having for this entire scene. She unrolls the silverware from her napkin, places it into her lap, raises her fork to spear a piece of pasta... then stops to consider. “What kind of pasta do you think this is?”

“Hmm? It looks like farfalle, doesn't it?”

“Oh, but the type, the flavoring. Is it a vodka sauce, do you think?”

You stare down at her. “I really don't know how you'd expect me to know that.”

She sighs, and shakes her head with a smile. “Renko, I'm still inhabiting your fantasy, remember? _Your_ fantasy. It's going to taste like whatever you think it tastes like.”

“... oh.” That's weird to think about. “Er. Any preferences?”

“Something creamy, but a little spicy, maybe?”

“I'll do my best.” You stare really hard at the pasta and try to think the creamiest, spiciest thoughts you can. You haven't exactly eaten a lot of pasta in your life, so this only takes you so far.

After giving you a few seconds, Maribel takes a hesitant bite. “Hmm.”

“How is it?”

“It tastes like pizza. With...” Another bite. “... bacon and mushroom, I think? Isn't that what you usually get on _your_ pizzas?”

“You know me better than I know myself.”

“Of course I do.” She gives her fork a little waggle toward the screen before taking another bite. “I still remember way more of our time together than you do.”

She seems to enjoy the meal, regardless. Your own meal is... the best you could get with what's left of your money. You could have stretched your budget a little farther if you'd wanted to, but this is a date. It only feels appropriate that you should be eating something nice too. If only you could afford 'nice.' The closest you could afford was mince meat cutlets and fried rice from a carryout place, a self-heating can of green tea…

... and a fat slice of chocolate cake. The latter was half of your budget for the meal by itself, since you got it from an actual honest-to-goodness bakery. Bedecked with chocolate shavings, layered with three different types of chocolate filling, sprinkled with coconut, and studded with chocolate chips, it's a true monstrosity. It's entirely more decadence than you'd normally consider, but this could be your last meal. Might as well make it count.

As soon as you finish the rest of your meal and pull the cake in front of yourself, Maribel eyes it.

“Oh, that looks really good,” she says, leaning forward to inspect it until her face is almost smushed against the screen. “… do I get cake too?”

“You have, uh.” You gesture toward her pastry… thing. “That.”

Maribel settles down into her seat. “Ah, er, well.” She's already taken a bite from the end, sometime when you weren't paying attention. “I didn't want to say anything, but it kind of tastes like sawdust. I'm guessing you haven't had cannoli before, either?”

“… oh. Sorry. No.”

“Really, Renko. I'm going to have to drag you to Europe sometime. You're missing out on a lot of really good cuisine.”

“I'll make a deal with you—if we get out of this alive and, um, extant, we can go to all the restaurants you want. I'll try whatever you put in front of me.”

“Deal! Until then...” She pushes her plate and saucer aside, clearing enough room for her to lean forward over the table. “You have to share, Renko.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me! I want dessert too.” She leans even closer, until her face fills half the screen, and opens her mouth wide. “Aaaaah~.”

You stare down at her. There's no way she's serious, right? But, she stays right there, mouth open and waiting, and shows no sign of backing down. Uncertainly, you slice a small bite off the tip of your cake. You flush at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, but slowly extend it down to the phone.

“Homf.” She makes a cutesy biting sound, then pulls back, cupping her cheek as she chews. “Ahh. It's so tasty...”

“Uh-huh.” You pull the fork back. “Leaned right out of the screen and ate some, did you?”

“Maybe I did.” She has a mischievous glint in her eye. “You'll never know for sure.”

You shake your head, but can't help but smile at the dumb joke. And, taking a bite, you find that she was right, whether or not it was just an educated guess—the cake _is_ pretty good. After you've had a few bites, Maribel returns to her cannoli, and you're too embarrassed to ask her if it has a taste yet. Soon the food is gone, leaving the meal—possibly your last good, solid meal ever—behind you.

You bundle up your trash, then lean back, resting against the golden wall. The gold leaf feels surprisingly comfy: not soft, but silky smooth, at least. Maribel pushes her empty plates aside and props her chin up in her hands, peering idly up at you.

For a few minutes, you just sit there, enjoying... each other's company? It feels like a strange way to put it, since you're sitting along with your phone, but it's true. You're less alone than you've been for most of your life. The sun's setting, but the fading light casts the city into a nice backdrop. You're pretty sure you haven't just sat and watched a sunset in ages. Not in a 'damn kids these days are too busy with their cell phones to enjoy nature' sense. There just aren't many vantage points that can measure up to a centuries-old gold-plated pavilion, you suppose.

Maribel makes a little noise in her throat, both drawing your attention and sort of apologizing for breaking the silence. She follows it up with, “Renko?”

“Hmm?”

“I don't want to argue about it again, but... are you sure you want to go fight that thing?”

You stare at the floor in silence. A small, scared part of you wants to say no. Stay away from the monster. Leave Maribel to an ephemeral existence flitting from screen to screen in your perception. It isn't like you'll starve or anything—you could walk into a restaurant and cart off a feast every night if you really wanted to. The monster will keep eating people, probably, but is it more than a tiny bump in the grand scale of things?

On second thought, you'd rather fight the thing than live with that much on your conscience.

“... yeah. I think I do.”

She nods: subtly, and only once. “I thought so. I won't try to stop you. Whenever you're ready, just ask and I can lead you to it. It's made a, um, hole in reality or something. I can't explain it. I just... feel it somewhere out there.”

“Well, I'm not going immediately or anything. … you know how you're supposed to wait half an hour after you eat before swimming? It's probably double that for monster-hunting.”

“Maybe even triple.”

You give a half-laugh at your dumb jokes, then rest your head back against the wall. “If it eats my existence, we might not see each other again, right?”

“Probably not. I might be able to keep us together for a while, but that would... probably be the end. Of both of us, really. At least it might not be too bad? There probably isn't a more painless death than never having been born in the first place, I guess.”

“Yeah, real humane.” You let out a soft sigh. Still feels ridiculous that you're even planning to spend more time in the same prefecture as that thing, let alone seeking it out on purpose. Yet, here you are. “... can I ask for a dumb favor, then?”

“What is it?”

“Tell me... all the stories of the stuff we've done together. Before it erased you, I mean.” You meet her gaze, and the next line is so cheesy that it's embarrassing to even think about, but you know you're going to say it anyway. “... that way no matter what happens, I'll remember you, and you'll remember me.”

“O-oh. Um.” Maribel stiffens up in surprise, and it doesn't take long for tears to well in her eyes. “That... that sounds like a nice plan.”

A fat teardrop slides down her cheek. You reach down, and brush the back of your fingertips across your phone. They meet cold plastic, the same as always, but Maribel smiles. That's all that matters.

She takes a breath to steady herself, then sighs it out. “Well. Have I told you about when we first met?”

“I don't think so.”

“So, there was a club recruitment fair the first week of our freshman year, and... there were a hundred or so tables there, right? All of these big clubs with a dozen members trying to rope in new recruits... and then there was you. You were at a table all by yourself, and the sign you'd drawn was really plain, but you looked friendly, so I walked up...”

“And?”

“... and you didn't even look up from your book. You just kind of sighed and said, 'if you're going to make a joke about getting probed by aliens, you're the third person today.'”

“Oh.” You _remember_ that recruitment fair. It was exactly as awkward as she describes it. Except, in your version, there was no Maribel to rescue you. The only person who actually showed some interest for a few minutes turned out to be hitting on you. “… sorry.”

“No, it was kind of funny! And then I asked what the club was about, you tried to kind of... drive me off, I think? You jumped right in to really serious stuff and 'so, Miss Hearn, how do you feel about the possibility of hidden worlds that coexist with our own?' It took me an hour to figure out if you were for real or not...”

Maribel keeps going. The full story, dozens of investigations: from a satellite full of chimeras, to giving up on finding a supposed haunted house and spending the night in a 24-hour coffee shop while you waited for the next train. By the time she finishes, the sun has been down for hours, and you have to pick your way back out of the temple in complete darkness.

The next morning, you prepare for what will be, no matter how things go, your final monster hunt.


	6. Chapter 6

It doesn't take as long as you'd think.

Or, okay, that's reductive. It doesn't take very long to prepare for your final confrontation with that thing, because there isn't much that you, a normal student, can do. There aren't any handy merchants standing around pawning magic swords. There's no research you can do, no strategy guide you can read. You consider throwing on a few extra layers for some really basic armor, but decide against it; armor won't prevent anything that monster can do to you. You're barely even convinced it interacts with baryonic matter.

So, preparing mostly consists of making sure that the knife is sharp, you're wearing the kinds of clothes that are easy to move around in, and you're not so anxious that you'll pass out as soon as you see it.

That last part is the hardest. Talking to Maribel helps. It doesn't help enough.

Under Maribel's guidance, feeling completely unprepared, you head out for its lair.

She only has a feel for the relative direction and rough distance, so public transportation isn't an option. You walk. You set out just after dawn, weaving your way past joggers and sleepy-eyed businessmen.

It's a pretty familiar walk, too. It takes you straight toward the area you spent days patrolling before your first fight with the thing. Only in the final leg does Maribel instruct you to turn instead of heading straight to her apartment.

It's kind of anticlimactic, really. You walk a few more blocks, through a modest commercial district, and she has you stop.

You raise your phone. Maribel's turning side to side, arms outstretched, triangulating something. Finally, she looks away from you, pointing. “There's a building right there, right?”

It feels a little weird, having her interact with your environment from within the phone. She's right, though. You're in front of a squat little office building, unmarked, with blinds over the windows. The kind of place that's probably full of businesses that don't deal with the public. “Right.”

“It feels like we're getting really close. I think it's inside.”

You tuck a hand into your clothes and clutch the handle of the knife as you approach the door. It slides open to reveal a normal stairwell. There's a little board that ought to list all of the different floors and the businesses on them, but it's almost completely blank. Only at floor 4 does it list anything, and that's 'vacant.'

“Seems like a really lively place. I should have worn something more stylish.”

If Maribel hears your joke, she doesn't acknowledge it. You head up the stairs.

There's one rental suite per floor, it seems. You open the first door and find nothing but disused office space—a big expanse of empty, slightly matted carpet. The only contents are a few piece of office furniture that look like they might have been sitting here since the Showa era. It doesn't take long to convince yourself that there isn't much to see in here—the weirdest thing you find is a brown, sticky smear on the back of an office chair. That's suspicious, but not the kind of suspicious you're looking for.

The second floor is the same. The third has weathered posters that make you suspect it was a travel company... sometime about thirty years ago.

“We're getting closer,” Maribel says quietly. “... have you figured out what happened yet?”

“Huh?”

“I think, um.” You don't have your phone's screen turned on, but you can still hear her shifting around in discomfort. “... I think it ate everyone who worked here.”

_Oh._

That... that does explain some things.

You aren't walking in the ruins of early 21st century capitalism. You're walking in a graveyard.

You carefully sit down the ash tray you'd been inspecting. “Let's keep moving.”

Floors four and five are more of the same. You're starting to wonder whether you should try to politely ask Maribel to find the thing again.

There's only one floor left, though. The stairway leading up to floor six has a layer of dust so thick that it's almost palpable beneath your feet. There's a half-busted Exit sign hanging above the door, flickering and buzzing to itself. You've relaxed a bit by now—the knife is safely tucked inside your jacket.

It's a decision you immediately regret when you throw the door open. Something is very wrong here.

It's a riot of colors and shapes. It's kind of like if somebody rolled up a city. The walls in front of you are formed out of... a bit of everything, really. Store fronts and chunks of apartment buildings and lonely patches of grass rub up against each other, stitched together in ragged shapes like a deranged quilt. The objects sticking up from them intersect each other at odd angles. A telephone pole extends from a sidewalk all the way to the far wall, where it runs right through an awning. A table stands on a restaurant verandah above you, holding an apparently-weightless bottle of Calpis.

You stare, your eyes trying to pick out all the contours and divide them into something meaningful. The walls curve around you in one big round-ish surface. It stretches out away from you in a snaking tunnel, which curves in every direction without any pattern that you can discern. The first few bends are shallow enough that you can see past them, but no farther. Who knows how far it extends.

It takes an act of willpower to convince yourself to take a step forward. “Either this place has a really avant-garde interior decorator, or we found what we're here for.”

You hold up the phone, and pause while Maribel gets her own look at it. “This is definitely what I felt.”

“What, er. What _is_ it?”

“Well... we agreed that the monster is wrapping itself up in people's existences for protection or something, right? I think this is sort of like... insulation. It built a house, I guess.”

“It made a barrier to hold _existence_ in?”

“I mean, I'm not an authority on this stuff either. It's a hypothesis.”

“Right... I should probably take my earbuds out so I can hear it coming. Will you be okay?”

“I should probably be the one asking you that.” Maribel flashes you a worried smile. “... good luck, Renko.”

“Thanks. If, er. If I don't make it...” You trail off. You'd been preparing yourself to make some sort of grand statement, but you don't have one in you. “... that would suck. I'll try not to let that happen.”

“... that's good to know. I'll... I'll see you soon.”

Maribel lingers for a second, then steps out of the frame. You pull your earbuds out and turn off the screen. Maribel's probably still shadowing you, a nonexistent specter, but in most ways that matter, you're all alone from here on out.

You step forward, winding your way around a fire hydrant and ducking past a tree that dangles from the ceiling. The tunnel snakes on in front of you. You follow it.

* * *

Your mind is buzzing.

The tunnel wraps around you like a cocoon, and soon you can't see anything beyond the nearest curves in either direction. There's no apparent light source nearby except a neon sign glowing in a window, but everything is lit neutrally, like it's an overcast day. You walk across shingled rooftops and brick walls. The glass fronts of convenience stores groan under your feet. You feel almost certain that 'down' and 'up' have changed position sometime during this walk, but you have no idea how you'd ever prove it.

And yet you can't deny that it's _here_ , that _what you're seeing exists_. It's real. It's realer than real, making the rest of your life leading up to this moment feel like a half-remembered movie, so inflated with its own importance that you never stopped to consider whether it was worth it. In some corner of your mind, you keep trying to remind yourself of Maribel's theory—some sort of insulation, letting reality build up like an atmosphere. Seems to be working. If the surroundings had any more weight, they'd suffocate you.

You hold up your phone and turn the camera on, recording each step. Are you documenting it for future research, or just trying to preserve some proof that you didn't hallucinate this? That's also hard to say.

On and on, you trudge, with no sense of time or distance. Maybe you should have brought some water or something, but it's far too late for that now. Could've at least tried to snag that drink near the entrance. You make a mental note to look out for more restaurant storefronts.

Slowly, step by step, you become aware that the landscape in front of you is changing.

There's a wall far, far ahead of you, and a void between you and it. Walking closer, you get a better sense of the shape—there's an opening, a room the size of a house. The walls spread outward and then curve around to meet each other again, forming a teardrop shape. The details are finer here, the obstacles fewer. It's all signs, from 'STOP' to billboards hawking trips to the moon. (They look a lot bigger when they aren't a hundred meters away.) There's no other exit, either.

You've reached the end of the line.

“... here goes nothing, Merry,” you announce to the air. You fish the knife out, then shrug your jacket off and toss it aside. If this is a fight, you're better off without the encumbrance. Part of you wonders if you shouldn't just strip. Don't they say that berserkers fought naked or something?

Before you can make up your mind on _that_ particular stupid plan, you're interrupted. The air stirs. There's a very, very light mist throughout the room, and it starts flowing together. Here and there, you can catch little ribbons of substance, as some parts draw together faster than others. A color, or the lack of one, makes itself known—a nothingness that makes your eyes ache. Here in this place where everything is too real, it almost makes sense to your brain. Almost.

The monster is assembling itself. You must have caught it napping. If you had any sense, you'd try to take it out here and now, while it's vulnerable, but your legs are frozen in place until it feels too late.

You have to glance away, but you catch a glimpse of limbs, knobbly-jointed and pale. Are they its _own_? Another piece of stolen property?

Once it's complete, you sense the thing moving closer, as noiseless as ever.

You were really hoping for more time to gather yourself, but it's a bit late for that now. Time to do this thing.

You take a deep breath and raise the knife, pointing it toward the thing without quite looking at it. “I'm here to get my life back. To get _Merry's_ life back. I'm here to stop you.”

You might as well be talking to a tree stump, for all the response you're getting. Doesn't really make any difference, you suppose. You're pretty sure that you're only doing this because it'd feel weird to just charge at the thing and start hacking away without a word. “Look, uh. Whatever you are, we're pretty sure you don't belong here. You're hurting people here, too. If you go back to where you belong, I, uh. I won't... have to hurt you?”

Maybe you should have practiced this 'dramatic ultimatum' thing.

It doesn't give any sort of response that you can discern. You take a step closer, giving the knife a little thrust to show that you mean business.

You think it's studying you dispassionately, like a researcher looking down at an insect.

Then, there's motion. You see a dozen shapes, snapshots of people like the frames of a zoetrope, strung out along the floor. They form a winding trail, and each only appears for a split-second before vanishing.

The last one is an arm's length in front of you: the briefest glimpse of an old lady, glasses perched on her nose, with her arm pulled back for a punch.

Some meaty-feeling limb flickers up to smash into your stomach. A nauseous, aching feeling erupts in it, and it definitely isn't helped by the way that you're sent flying. The world spins around you. You smack into the ground by the shoulder, and it spins some more. You bounce for another few meters, each one hammering pain into your back or limbs.

Somehow, you manage to both keep your grip on the knife _and_ not stab yourself. You flail around until your hands find the ground and push yourself up. You've landed on a collage of smaller signs, 'ROOM FOR RENT' and 'LOST CAT PLEASE HELP!!'

The monster stands above you.

Here, it doesn't need to choose which of its stolen realities to wear like a mask. They're all here, and they're all coextensive. A menagerie of faces stare down at you from _one_ face. A halo of arms spread around it, doing everything from gesturing emphatically to waving in threats of violence. Every single one exists at the same time, every facet visible at once, like some kind of optical illusion. There's no flickering. Here and now, it's as real as you are. Hell, it's two dozen or so people at once. It's probably real _er_.

For just a moment, you catch the full form of Maribel in that tangle, looking down at you with disappointment.

“Didn't you hear me?” You stagger to your feet. A rib flashes pain at you, and you wince. “I want...” A staggered, clumsy step. “... Merry back!”

You half-leap, half lunge for it, swiping for a handhold while your other hand swings in for a stab. You get both, grabbing a handful of... assorted clothing, and plunging the knife into flesh of every color. It trembles and writhes beneath you, and you stab again and again. Soon, you've ripped a gash in its facade, skittering nothingness showing through a hole in those stolen clothes.

A dozen arms claw at you, and you stumble back, swinging wildly at them. You cleave a hand clean off its wrist, sending it flopping bloodlessly to the ground. One snags your sleeve, and you stab right through the arm, making it go limp.

Another grabs the lower hem of your blouse.

Another hooks behind your thigh and tugs your leg out from under you.

“I'm not...!” You kick at it, landing a satisfying blow to one of those faces. You slice at it, sending a thumb flying and cleaving away big, wobbly chunks of flesh that vibrate away into colorless mist.

“Leaving!” There are so many arms on you that you don't even need to hold yourself up now. You fling your upper body forward, driving your knife into that tangle of faces. It sinks in up to the hilt, and they don't even flinch. Eyes stare past you as the blade bisects them. A hand comes up, grabs the handle, and casually tosses it away.

“W-without Merry!” Acting on pure instinct now, you swipe at it, clawing at the hole you just made. You rip away weightless, gummy-feeling chunks that tingle against your skin like an electric shock. You dig out a staticky gap where the right side of the face should be, but it isn't enough. It still isn't enough.

More arms latch onto you. Others reach over them, grabbing your back. They clamber for better grips, tugging at your clothes.

Soon, you can't even see well enough to judge if your frantic swinging is having any effect. The arms tense, dragging you forward.

That staticky void closes in. The light starts to fade. By the time you realize that you should scream, there's no air left to do it with. You sink forward into nothingness.

You are forgotten.

* * *

You're floating in...

'darkness' isn't the right word. 'Darkness' has a color.

You're floating in blindness, then. You can't see, and there's nothing _to_ see. You try to wave a hand in front of your face, but if you still have hands, they aren't returning your calls.

You're floating in oblivion, but you can still sense your surroundings.

Somewhere far, far above you, you can feel salvation. It's the sun. It's light, and warmth, and breathing, and _seeing_ and knowing. It's everything, really. It's Reality—capital R. You just know it, as certainly as some space alien tossed into a strong gravity field for the first time would know which way is up. You claw for it with your nonexistent hands, strain to scream for help with your nonexistent voice, but no help comes. You can't interact with it, any more than a character in a movie can climb right out of the TV screen. You aren't a part of that world anymore.

It's incorrect to say that you get tired of struggling. There's no tiredness here, either. There's not even a 'you,' really.

But at some point, you stop trying, and you get a better feeling for your surroundings.

It's like an ocean, you think.

You bump into things now and then, and sense that you aren't alone. There are others here—millions. _Billions_. Uncountably many, like the grains of sand on a beach. Mostly, on this surface, tiny and unimportant, algae floating on a grand sea. Stranger things lurk in the depths, though. You can sense their movements, sending great waves through the oblivion in which you float. Now and then, one makes a mad scramble back toward Reality, sending it straining into the air, only to land with a cataclysmic splash.

There's no escaping from this place.

Or... there is. You're almost certain that one being did, after all.

But not you.

You float, and float, and float. And there isn't a 'you,' and there isn't 'floating,' and there isn't _anything_.

* * *

Then, there is.

You wheeze and writhe on the ground.

This is shocking, because there shouldn't even be a 'you' to do this. You feel like a temporal refugee from some sci-fi story, getting awoken in the future after millions of years of sleep. There's no sense of continuity. You didn't exist, and then you did. It's kinda hard for your brain to smooth over a transition like that.

Little by little, though, the outside world starts trickling in. There's something rough beneath your fingers—grass, and soil. There's a breeze. There's light, actual light.

Maribel is standing above you, in the flesh.

“Are you okay, Renko? … I'm sorry, I grabbed you as fast as I could, but, um.”

“I'm.” You cough a few times. You don't feel qualified to operate a pair of lungs anymore. Going to take a few more seconds before your brain catches up to speed on all the vital parts, probably. “I'm fine, I think? How long was I... gone for?”

“Time is kind of weird here. Call it twenty seconds?”

“I thought I was going to die. I thought I _was_ dead.”

“You basically were. But you're safe for now.” She offers you a hand. “Can you stand?”

“Mmh.” You slap your hand into hers and strain to stand up. Your body's working now. Mostly, at least.

You open your mouth to ask, 'where are we,' but you recognize the answer pretty quickly.

You're in the meadow. Merry's meadow, the one you painstakingly spliced together yourself. It only takes a few seconds to recognize because you've never seen it from inside, before. At least, you're in a little bubble of it. About five meters in every direction, it just sort of ends, a sharp line between you and falling back into oblivion.

You take a hurried step away from that edge. “... how are we here?”

“It's kind of complicated. If you want to think about it in physical terms, I kind of, um... sliced off a chunk of your fantasy and walled it off?”

You tilt your head back and look up into the sky. The bubble has limits there, too—you somehow see both the sky overhead, and the empty darkness beyond. Optics probably don't mean much here. Physics in general, really. It's a very tenuous sort of feeling. The slightest slip, and you'd be back in that nothingness.

You start on another question. Before you can get it out, though, something pushes up against the wall of the bubble, giving it a forceful shove. An earthquake shakes the meadow, making you spread your arms to steady yourself. You catch only the briefest glimpse of the culprit before it fades back into the darkness—a vague, impossible-to-process, colorless form. Just like the monster that dragged you here.

Past the bubble's boundaries, though, you can feel them. More importantly, you're pretty sure they can feel you too. Like wolves pacing around a campfire, they're probing the edges of Maribel's bubble, weighing their risks. They're hungry, and you smell kind of like food.

“Are we, uh. Are we safe?” You try to keep your voice from shaking, and fail miserably.

“Well, um! We're safe for as long as it matters. We're the closest thing to reality in here, and everybody wants a bite.” She gives an anxious little laugh. “... it takes a bit of effort to keep the barrier up, so we have maybe a few days before it pops?”

You nod slowly, not taking your eyes off the darkness past the edge of the bubble. “There are, like... _billions_ of those things.”

“Mmhm... we said they were probably gods or something, right? It kind of makes sense, doesn't it? How many gods, or myths, or legends do you think there have been since caveman days? And how many do you think we still know about, compared to the ones that are just... forgotten?”

“Almost makes me sympathize with that thing being willing to eat people to get out of here.” You finally tear your gaze away from the edge of the bubble and look back to Maribel. “So, er. What happens now? Do we just coast along until you're too weak to go on, or do you have a plan?”

“I... do have a plan. You aren't going to like it, though.” She looks sheepish, avoiding your eyes. “This all started when I opened a gap from reality to fantasy, right? I realized a few days ago that... I think I can pull off the other direction. A gap from here all the way back to reality.”

She pauses to let that sink in. You stare at her. A grin starts forming on your face, only to fizzle away when you realize she doesn't look all that thrilled. “Er. So what's the catch?”

“Well, I'm not sure how it works as far as, um, _metaphysics_. You might not have much of an existence when you get back. But it's way better than this, right?”

“... and what about you? Why didn't you do it days ago?”

She glances guiltily aside, taking a few seconds to choose her words. “Remember when I opened a gap into that tanuki's house, how it made me too tired to even appear for a while?”

“... oh. I'm guessing this is a bit harder.”

“I... doubt I'll even be able to move, let alone keep the bubble up. But if you hurried, I think you'd be safe! You could—!”

“No.” The word's out of your mouth so fast, it takes your brain a second or two to catch up. Fortunately, your whole being is in agreement on this fact. “No. It's nice of you to offer, Merry, but... I'm going to have to decline. Either we both get out of here, or we vanish together. I'm not leaving you behind.”

She looks surprised, a flush slowly rising to her cheeks. “I should have figured you'd say that. You really do have a hero complex. Are you sure you weren't meant to be born a few centuries earlier so you could run around the countryside rescuing damsels and slaying evil warlords?”

“Mmh. I tried listing that as my career path in high school, you know. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find a good undergrad program for Damsel Rescuing.”

“The economy just doesn't value the really important jobs anymore.” Maribel smiles and takes a step forward. She extends her hand and interlaces her fingers with yours, giving it a squeeze. “... I'm glad I can touch you again, at least.”

“I. Er.” You adjust your hat with your free hand to mask some of your embarrassment. “... it's nice to finally see you in person. Shame it had to happen like this.”

“Mmhm.”

Maribel steps closer, draws herself up against you until you can feel her body heat through the layers of clothing. It's a little awkward. You've never held anybody like this before, let alone a girl you just met for the first time barely a week ago. It's also... nice. It feels like you're learning more about her now than you did in a week of hours-long conversations. She's taller than you, and her hands are ridiculously smooth, and the little curls of her hair tickle where they brush your cheeks.

She sighs out, “Do you know what I think, Renko?”

“What's that?”

“I think that... even if I stop existing, that isn't the end.”

“Er. Do you mean that literally, or in a 'Merry's always alive as long as you remember her' kind of way?”

“Literally. I've spent more time here than you have, and I have my powers. I think... I think no matter what happens, I'll be able to find my way back to reality somewhere, sooner or later. I've visited plenty of other worlds in my dreams, and I doubt Nonexistence is very far from any of them. It's, um, kind of like an ocean, right? It's really big and hard to navigate, but if you jump in, you'll wash up somewhere eventually.”

You... really want to pry for more information there. Really, the past week has given you enough tidbits to found a new theory of cosmology from scratch.

No time for that, though.

“I think I'm still happier if you don't dive headfirst into oblivion for my sake. It's... fine, Merry. I lost. I'd rather spend my last few days here with you than live on at your expense.”

She laughs softly. “I thought you'd say that.”

Quite casually, like she's practiced it, Maribel grabs your shirt collar. She tugs you in for a firm kiss, and you have to rise up on your tiptoes to make it connect.

The kiss lasts a good five or six seconds. At some point, one of you lets out a little coo into it, and you're not even sure whether it was you or her.

When Maribel breaks the kiss, she's still holding your collar, her face centimeters from yours. “Hey, Renko?”

“Yeah...?”

Her gaze shifts to the side. You follow it, and find that she's already opened a hole in space behind you, as tall as you are and even wider.

In the moment it takes you to realize what she's planning, she gives you a shove.

“... I'm sorry. I love you.”

“Merry, wait!” You try to snag her hand or something, but you're too slow. You're already falling through that gap. You're not even sure your words make it to her. Either way, she doesn't react to them. You're barely even out of reach before she slumps to the ground, shaking and weak.

Even from this far away, though, you can see one of those creatures, those inchoate gods or whatever, smash through the walls of the bubble.

As the void floods in to claim Maribel, the entrance snaps closed behind you, cutting off your view.

* * *

You're falling. There's no sense of time and no directions. Of the two featureless spaces you've been in today, though, you'd pick this one in a heartbeat.

And then, you're falling in a rather more literal sense. You plummet through the air for a meter or two, rebound off the floor, and come to a stop.

You're back in the lair. By all appearances, you've barely been gone for a matter of second. Hard to say, really. The monster's still there. It turns as you reappear, swiveling its body in your direction. Has it noticed you? Probably.

But screw the monster. You want Merry back.

“Merry!”

You scramble to your feet and sprint across the room. The gap's still open, hanging in the air a meter or so off the floor.

“Merry!”

You claw for the edges of the gap, but they aren't exactly solid—just your luck that the trans-conceptual gateway wouldn't come with convenient handholds. You thrust a hand inside and feel around wildly, but you get the feeling that Maribel is way, way farther away than that.

Your hand does brush something, though. It's firm without having any texture or temperature, the _concept_ of an object without the shape.

You recoil, just in time for a... sort of leg to thrust out into the air. It's thin and wispy, made out of the same colorless nothingness as the monster. As always, it's hard for you to make out details, but the edge of your perception makes out something like a grasping claw.

Another limb extends, and another. They grope blindly around, snatching at the floor and clawing at the air. They strain, trying to draw their full bulk through, but there are too many of them, and the gap is too small.

More of those monsters. If they get through... you can't even imagine what will happen. One of those things was enough to depopulate an entire office building in a matter of days. Did you escape just to unleash the apocalypse behind you?

You take another step back, glancing around nervously for the knife. Is 'stab a legion of bloodthirsty unreal monsters' a _good_ plan? No. But it's the only plan you have.

The monster— _your_ monster, the one that caused all this trouble in the first place—doesn't seem any more pleased with this development. It scutters a few meters further away, but that only seems to help them notice it faster. A formless limb flickers out, wrapping around the main portion of its bulk. It jerks back in an obvious escape attempt, but another limb lashes for it, and another.

Soon, its body is halfway buried under grasping appendages, a writhing tangle of nonexistence where you can't even begin to make out the edges. They're starved, and meanwhile, the thing you've been fighting all along has been gorging itself on the realities of a dozen humans.

Its peers have found it now, and you think they're jealous.

At least, that's the best way to explain what happens next, as they start ripping it apart piece by piece.

The monster shudders, making a desperate escape attempt. It struggles against its bonds, shaking the room with the force of its protests. It wails in agony, soundlessly, making the air vibrate in a way that hurts your ears. It smashes some of those limbs, making them dissipate into nothingness. It has the weight of existence on its side, and it thoroughly outmatches its insubstantial foes.

But there's a practically unlimited supply of them. You did guess 'billions' before.

Chunk by chunk, bite by bite, they cannibalize it. You can only watch in mute terror, until the last crumb is gone. The limbs start patting around, hunting for more food, ripping up pieces of the floor and tugging at the air itself. They aren't strong enough, though. They had a hearty meal, but reality is still no place for them.

The gap is closing. The edges sink inward, like a shutting eyelid. Some of the wiser limbs slip quickly back through it. Others... don't. They keep greedily grubbing for every bit of reality they can get, until it scissors closed, snipping them off. A final tremble runs through the air as the boundary repairs itself, and you're left standing alone in the lair.

“M-merry!”

You run back to where the gap was, feel wildly at the air, and find nothing. You pat your hands along the floor, pound on it a few times, but there's no path back to her, no secret door to fix all of this. “Merry! Please, you have to be _somewhere_ , just—”

A moment of more reasonable thought hits you. You pat yourself down. The knife is gone—you can see it glittering on the floor a few meters away. Your phone, though, is nowhere to be found. Did you drop it during the fight? Did it get lost in nonexistence somewhere?

You start hurriedly checking the ground for it, but an earthquake stops you.

It's firm. The whole room bounces, like somebody gave it a swat with the world's biggest hammer. A license plate falls from the ceiling and lands with a sharp _clang_. A few flyers drift down.

It shudders again. There's a deep, architectural creak, followed by a few sharp pops. A few meters away, the boundary between two signs splits apart, revealing a yawning void beneath.

This suddenly seems like a very good time to get out of here. Now that the proprietor's dead, it looks like the laws of physics have decided to reassert themselves.

You give a final, hurried look around for your phone, but the floor trembles again, and you aren't going to push your luck. At a full sprint, you run back toward the entrance, winding through the tunnel as it grows more and more unstable. Signs rain down around your head. At one point, the entire segment you're in starts sagging down, and you have to scramble-climb your way up, making a final desperate leap to stable land. A storefront crashes down toward you, and you throw yourself out of the way. By the time the door comes back into view, you're leaping from chunk to chunk as they shudder and drift down into darkness.

You dive back into reality. You slam the door behind you, and there isn't enough money in the world to convince you to peek back through it.

* * *

Running down the sidewalk, you ricochet off the first other pedestrian you meet, sending him stumbling. He glances around, wide-eyed and bewildered, and his gaze goes right through you. That's concerning. But it isn't what you're worried about.

It's a long trip, and you can't run the whole way. After the first leg, you slow down to a brisk walk, cursing every moment that goes by. You _try_ not to think of the possibilities, but fail miserably. What if Merry's gone, really gone, and your own reality's so tenuous that you'll fade to join her soon? What if Merry's just _gone_ , period, and there's no getting her back?

Standing on the solid, mundane sidewalk, you can almost convince yourself that everything that happened today was a dream. It was a dream, and nothing has changed. Obviously. If it weren't for the bruises you got during the fight, and those entirely too-intense memories of nonexistence, you might even believe it.

You're so wrapped up in your thoughts that the trip passes in a fugue. Only once you step into your apartment building does your autopilot turn off.

You have an apartment key in your pocket. It's reassuring—if your past had been outright erased, you wouldn't have one, would you? You still slow down as you approach the door, stepping uneasily up to it. For a few seconds, you linger there, listening for sounds from within. It's as long as you can force yourself to wait.

You slide the key in, throw open the door, and after the quickest glimpse, hurry inside. It's still your apartment. There are, in fact, still some slivers of your existence left.

Great news, but the TV's what's important. You turn it on, and growl in frustration as you have to spend a few seconds fiddling to change the feed over to your computer—in the absence of your phone, you need to stream from the original source.

There's a brief flicker, and the meadow scene pops up. You lean in until the glow lights your face, but there's nothing to see. “Merry? Come on, can you hear me?”

The wait for a response feels unbearable. It doesn't pay off, either.

“Merry!” You cup your hands together to yell, press them to the TV. “Just send me some sign if you're okay! One word, a flicker, anything!”

A gentle breeze blows through the meadow—the 00:00:21 mark, you now know by heart. Nothing else changes.

Maribel Hearn is not coming back.


	7. Epilogue

Those first couple of days are a blur. You don't leave the apartment. Your flurry of experiments makes that earlier attempt to conduct a séance over your TV look calm and reasoned. You flip through channels looking for one that Maribel might be able to slip herself into. You try out spells you found online after ten minutes of research. You spread half a dozen novels on the floor in front of you to give her more options to work with.

None of them accomplish anything.

Two full days pass before you have to leave your apartment to get food. Nobody notices you, and you can't get the cashier to even glance in your direction. You don't have any money anyway, so you write yourself a reminder to pay for it and slink out the door.

Two days after that, you're walking down the street when another pedestrian steps out of your way. It almost slips by without you noticing it, but after a week of this, the slightest acknowledgment feels amazing. You rush home and check the TV again, to find only disappointment.

Little by little, reality reasserts itself. People start recognizing you. You get a new phone. A TA emails you to ask why you haven't been coming to class, and you bullshit an answer. It keeps your hope up—if your existence can bounce back from the brink of oblivion, maybe Maribel's can too—but she still doesn't return.

Memories of her do, though. One night, while eating dinner, you realize that you can remember the interior of the TORIFUNE. You remember the day you met her, that club recruitment fair she teased you about. A search of the university's student roster still insists that a Maribel Hearn has never attended. There's no evidence to back you up. Much more confusingly, you can still remember your other life, the one where you never met her before she entered your TV. Two sets of memories war in your head, and it's hard to say which is true. Is either of them, really?

Life moves on, with no help from you. You don't really _want_ it to. There's no stopping it.

A week later, you're solid enough to go back to class.

After three weeks, you reluctantly turn off your TV for the first time since her disappearance.

Just to be safe, you write down every single fact you know about Maribel, from your shared history to her approximate height to the soft little laugh that melted your heart, and tuck it all away into a single giant case file. You did promise that you'd remember her. It kind of feels like giving up, though, and it redoubles your resolve. Over the next few days, you make a dozen posts to occult message boards looking for people with similar powers, anybody who can reach into fiction, _anything_ that might let you track her down. It doesn't turn up anything useful. You spend evenings in the Old Adam for the same reason, and come away empty-handed.

You debate heading back to that abandoned office building to check if the monster's other victims have recovered, but decide against it. Neither answer would bode very well for Maribel's return.

The quarter ends, and midway through cramming for exams, you realize that you've gone a whole day without thinking about Maribel. It makes you feel guilty, and you spend the next hour rereading your notes on her, straining to remember every conversation, her face, how it felt in that fleeting moment when she held you.

Sometime halfway through the next quarter, you have the same realization again. It reminds you of a small research project you've been meaning to do—you look up Maribel's parents, stay up late one night so you can make a trans-oceanic phone call. It takes a few minutes of negotiation before you both end up speaking equally-bad English. “I don't have a daughter,” her father explains to you, annoyed. “Please do not call again.”

By the end of the school year, your existence has fully reasserted itself. Your bank account pops back up one day, with all of 38 yen in it.

By the end of the Summer, everything is back to normal, more or less. You resume Sealing Club activities. You even get a booth for the fall club membership drive for incoming freshmen.

It is, just like the last two times you tried this, a bit of a disaster.

As a one-person club, the committee that handles these things doesn't assign you much priority. You get stuck way at the end, in between the Kyoto U Amateur Curling Team (3 members) and the Entomology Club (2 members.) In the first 45 minutes, only three students wander past. None of them give your sign ('THE SECRET SEALING CLUB – UNRAVELING THE OCCULT MYSTERIES OF THE WORLD!') more than a quick, pitying glance. And you've been to these things before. This is the _busy_ part of the schedule.

After another twenty minutes, you pull your laptop out. You can at least catch up on the latest episodes of _Cryptid Mysteries Uncovered_.

The intro drones on, with the narrator monologuing about the latest evidence for panspermia, and thus, apparently, for a race of space-dwelling Bigfoots who colonized the asteroid belt 2 billion years ago. It's the kind of nonsense that you'd usually eat up, but it's only halfway holding your attention at the moment.

It isn't so easy to ignore it when the video starts stuttering, though. You pause it and sigh, flick back out to check the signal strength. Your bandwidth is fine. It must just be a quick hiccup.

You pull the video back up, and find that it's now split down the middle by an eye-filled gap.

In the several seconds that you spend staring at this, several thoughts flicker through your head. They range from 'what the hell' to 'maybe the video is just _like_ this.' They all intensify greatly as the gap folds open.

An arm casually reaches out of the screen, with a silky white glove on its dainty hand. It pats at the surface around it, prodding the keyboard a few times before it finds purchase.

You scramble back away from your laptop and glance hurriedly around, but nobody else even seems to notice this. The Curling Team members are having a vigorous argument about the best strategy for something called 'tick shots.'

The tip of a very silky umbrella—the word 'parasol' pops up from somewhere deep in your memory—jabs out next to it. A hand follows.

Soon, a figure rises up through the gap. Your laptop deforms to accommodate this, like rubber. A familiar, floppy hat. Golden hair and eyes. A very, very elaborate dress, so puffy that it practically explodes outward the second that the lower hem is out of the gap.

She bends and, improbably takes a seat on the edge of the gap, with her feet still dangling inside it. “Really, Renko,” she huffs. “You should get a bigger screen. It's hard to step through this thing in a ladylike manner.”

“I. Uh.” Your attention's sort of been so fixated on the... situation with your laptop that you haven't given a moment's thought to your own position. You're scrunched back in your chair, your hands braced against the seat and prepared to shove you out of it at any moment so you can run off screaming. “ _What?_ ”

She tilts her head and shoots you a mock pout. “That's all the greeting I get? That's cold, don't you think?” She smirks and leans forward, propping her chin up in one hand, while the other reaches out to cup your cheek. The material of her gloves is impossibly smooth against it, and something about the gesture makes you flush. “You did promise to remember me, Renko.”


End file.
